they do not

make for

reading chairs;

these piles of bone.

jarring phalanges

too intimate,

nudge and press the skin

of our seats with that night

etched deep into calcium.

the bones are still

and we can not.

left-bum-right-bum

shift and sway.

piles of bones

do not make for

tea-time ottomans

but do brew

things you could never guess to tell

just by looking at her,

those never-never-agains

and silly-lost selves,

found now to ossify,

and dissolve off of our brains

but leave us sitting

foolishly, uncomfortably

on unoriginal secrets.

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