Bones Poem by Jonathan Ballam

The graves are pure
She said
And nothing ever had meant the same to her
In the
Garden


The whole arcane explosion had begun
And
I
Left the decomposing self behind
(in its small ashtray)

It is enough
I had seemed to say
Although my words
Came out
Cracked
And abused

The garden thrums with Death
And maybe I should be there
To see
To feel the fight
To absorb my self in something other than

(the sweet scented corpses)
And listen out for my name

Because the age has drawn out
A thick steady hand
That drowns in its tears
Carves up the bone
Leaves
(you)
Lost in the mist

Its time, she said
-with- a long drawn pause

She lifts up her hand
(slowly) drowns with
The archetype