Bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones, And curst be he yt moves my bones. ~ Inscription on Shakespeare’s tomb

On this bright Sunday morning, I find Myself back in the ditch Feeling for your bones, with these blind Unsteady hands.

There you are, (one can only conjecture and hope When traversing the past), the last bone Of my hunched spine, and there he is, a rib Loosened from the rest

Floating in my chest, handing me the train Tickets to discover and map you, An unruly savage with whom I traded cigarettes And books for throaty ballads.

Time is the fine dust settling over my naked Limbs shoveling ineffectually at death Which came as landslides that shut down all routes To the glittering and polished

Cities of the past. Knowing all this, to what Purpose then do these cursed hands Sift through the stones, again, disturbing your Possessed bones?

For Kutti & Kuppa