These pieces of me,
my belly and my soul,
are collected in a house of bone,
a frail cage of marrow,
and a box to hold my soul.

I watch from this house,
at a place near the edge of forever,
and from this cage, this spirit box,
I can see the world slowly turn,
spinning inelegantly,
like a broken ballerina
all wobbly and errant in
a way that is imperfect,
but a way that makes me smile to myself,
alone in my house of bone.

AcB 4.13.00