When I grow up, I would like
to be a skeleton. To study
the thickets of telephone wires
with their rows of birds perched,
studying me. One day, I will sigh
a solemn wind. Curtains will peel
back, all my windows will open,
I will be a glass of red wine
evaporating in a white room.
Through the windows of skeletons,
the waiting invisible tide, thick
opaque waters, grass skeleton waves
that we miraculously walk on,
we the living, our birds, our tongues,
lips, eyes, tiny eggs in their soft nests.
We hatch, we break open, singing
skeletons paused in cosmic roar.