The Bones of January

(A Stitching of Previous Fragments)
01/ The bones of an hour are revealed slowly, with soft flesh becoming angular, tense, abstracted against the histories of the room, the tongued stories in the walls—

02/ A blank page easily irritates. A hesitation frustrates. On the other hand, a lost thought burns. The brittle bones of memory— always on the verge of breaking, snapping as a dry tree branch, midwinter

03/ She wore her mistrust as a formal corset, with ribbing firmly made of whale bone and white muslin. She moved as if underwater, bitterly indifferent.

04/ Impurities rest in the bones.

05/ fossil remains of leaves imprinted in cement—their bones outline the contour of a history untranslatable—

06/ the bones of an idea scrawled across scraps of paper—

07/ this morning, two feral cats argue over bones of a heron by the side of the canal

08/ Stitched with golden thread in the inner lining of his winter coat where the bones of a random moment of time, the tailor daydreaming of Egyptian fabrics dyed with Sapphic purple.

09/ The commonplace object easily fits into the center of a shaky palm: handful of salt, clipping of rosemary, yesterday’s forgotten bus fare, the gold plated ring purchased in New Orleans as a gift.

10/ The forgotten bones in the throat.

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