The Bone Poem by James McLain

It's not the meat around it,
Dog's don't complain.
Why does God?

Psychopaths need the meat because
The lier won't.
In the barn she hefts it not having
A scale.

A river runs through it, along the
Bush covered bank,
Hidden by trees that completely
Cover it.

Daffodils in bloom, bleeding white sap.
Expectations say, turn away from it.
You peak through the hedges all the green
Leaves in the mist like the tounge
Sticky stuck sticks right to it.

Hypocrites die due to bad luck, look
What you did while making my bed.
Could it possibly be where we are born,
Hiding our heads, while the river runs
Through it.