Tonight I was surprised by my skull,
was brushing my hair and noticed it there,
thin and blind to what can come crashing -
waiting for the nest of a pillow
to have all the movement drop away.

Poor bones are pulled along in the dark,
don't know when they cross at a streetlight,
cars waiting behind invisible gates,
that fragile belief in decency, thrown out
twice a day at rush hour, headlights
glaring, cotton-tails of fumes beating ground
while sets of hooked up bones start walking.

Bones know they jumped but don't hear
the cry of the car, see the passing iron.
In an old dream I was nestled under tar
with only a straw to breathe - and I knew
that dream belonged to my bones.