Kist

A tiny bit of bone, too worn
To be informative, unless

Powdered to minerals, proteins,
And a few fragments of genome,

What can one do with such a home?
Shrink small imagination down

Until the smoothed surface roughens
In an intimate perspective,

Not so minute it seems holy,
Only somewhat bumpy country

Worthy of further exploring,
A broken cell of white eggshell

Opening onto a landscape
Of hills rolling in chalky swells

Like an incredibly slow
Ocean. Just as well. Bones are waves

Like everything else, are flowing
Circumstance, this one as well.

Ah, there’s the hut on the hill,
The one shaped like a wishing well.

I love this little circular
Door in the roof that leads to hell.