Cracked Black Bones

What might it be like to live
In some small home you passed by,
A light half-glimpsed through the fog?

You are too dark, down too deep—
Not in your quick red heart—no,
Deep down in your cracked black bones.

You drive on. You park a while.
You think, Well, I’m way too poor
To own a home of my own,

And that house, too—I just caught
A hint of a glow. I saw
What I thought I saw. What was

It like, once at the front door?
What was it like to look out
Or to be trapped in that house?

Not so nice. Just some small rooms.
Why would you want to go there,
When you’re half free in the dark

And chase sun and moon, and think
Of your soul, not as soft flesh,
Not caught on your cracked black bones?