The skeleton clicks, endlessly doubling
over in my hands. Damned things that steal soul
and flee. Mine, the son of a virgin father

Pink moon jelly, brown-bulbed weed,
and the serial, busted-up lines of nudged lather:
hissing, provisional lace, so white

Sunlight sang through the chick door's crack.
   And I heard her words,
         yet chose not to wake my brother,