Bones

Who knows...

               Bones
Who knows...

               Bones
And bones and bones and bones
Holding together muscle and skin across the cloudy empty spaces, the tight wound nerves in the sky empty places.
But who knows...
     
               Bones, not even real, not even tangible, stable little rattling scaffolding, and in places weak and rotten.

Who cares...
             Except the way it gets expansive in the middle, the muddling exhalation of air and the rising inflection at the end.

Who knows...
               Bones
But it is utterances that hold us up