Hitch-Hikin' for a Star-Liner

That box, small,
packed, for an eastward
lady by the quiet Bones, sits -
a rankling sore
laden with salted, sweetened,
granular and liquid
loves on his table.

Western
man watching fading
stars in a fallow sky,
stars watching
the festering box of longing
want, and that box of need
staring at those Bones
soaked in moonlight
and the dying winter.

Bones,
the box,
the stars - no write,
no wrong - burning,
being, be and they
are, just are; and He?

Gone, gone
hitch-hikin'
for a star-liner to carry
him back, back to right -
back to where
they were
write - back
to when the dream
that they once might be -
that once they were,
write, wrote.

Bones watching
the stars watching
the box of want
and that box
staring
at Bones watching
the stars...

_{(To SomeOne :: Feb 9, 2011 4:50)}