We can stroll in our own blood-stream, waltz over and through the ground of our muscles, and bounce on the woods of our bones.
Sit, and taste the pink marrow inside.
I offer two poems that come to me today.
what bones the night
the open eye
for the movement
of the bow
and the moans of pine cones
as they offer their spores
in its rise
deep count of the pulse, a purse,
the shifting of coins.