Bone. Sticking up out of the ground. Is it bone or just a rock? No, from here it looks like bone. The way the sun hits it. Like eyes in the dark, like eyes opening up in the darkness, dormant eyes still red with inactivity, definately BONE.
He is so weary but picks up when he sees the bone. Obtruding from the ground. He runs his hand through his hair, shorter now, squatting by it seeing if the outline is visible in the dust. Now. Careful. If it is bone you want to be careful.
Far off. He hears it, the way the sun hits it, the way far off, still far, far off, deep down where it is green and never turns brown, where bone looks only like bone where there are no mistakes about it, and they called her a bitch and a nigger and she turned her back and still had fun dancing in the rain because every house has its story and her's is beautiful.

It was her birthday.

Once you see the outline you know that it is bone.And you know that there is more bone under it. And under that.
And.
TV kills him. TV is not bone but only bric-a-brac, only a dead voice that gets in him like the cold. A dead voice of the cold, eyes closing.


But the outline is there. Anyone strings words, he wants to string novas.

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