and the marrow’s
            gone bad;

there’ll be no suckin
            from the bone,
no more drivin
            back home

the ligaments were
            but filaments
to that lightbulb of a brain

(raining crescendos
dripdried mementos)

and a faded cocktail
            umbrella
keeping the smeared message clear

umbrageous, whispered
            into the center
of an unskipped stone.