My bones are clean on Africa’s couch, I’d left my tears asleep. If I’d wake those traveling tears we’d crossed Boston – cobblestones where our hips are made of tea.
My bones are peckishly-manufactured, to adhere but too often the river steals our bones away. All along I’ve acquired this urban coast and hush my father’s bones asleep.
Before “The Warmth of Many Suns” beyond our hearts of flesh, my eyes return each resting flight,
watch the river abade, Ivory smile- her bones are made in mine.~Krissy