Down to the Bone
If I could un-ring certain bells and un-wind time I
would, but can’t, so instead, I’ll just ride this bucket
of bones till the wheels fly off; till ball-joints grind
and drop from sockets, till this xylophone of ribs
riffs the music of the spheres, until my funny bone
tells its last joke, till my shoulder blades cleave the
universe in two and find the nut within, until I’m
hipper than both hips and happier; till I’m savvy at
last, slicker than elbow grease, and mute as a smart
metatarsal, until I’m wiser than a thought-stuffed
skull, until I knee-cap my inner sonofabitch to stop
his useless jawin’ so I can hear one clear day
resound off tiny anvils and ride the lyrical looped
song of a backyard bird round Lew Welch’s ring of
bone —Instead, I’ll just splint what needs splinting
right here at home.
Jim Culleny; 5/19/05
I wrote this in response to Lew Welch’s ‘“Ring of Bone”
—a poem I took immediately to heart.
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