the bed swallowed you thursday night
rumpled the sheets, stripped the pillows
and left your bones, a heap in the yard
i mistook for bleached branches.
you were all veins and cartilage friday morning,
lobe of your ear red with bites,
skin between your fingers split with the cold.
I didn’t think to ask how you stood without skeleton,
if you could feel your guts being tempted by gravity.
When you went searching for your thigh bone
you must have found it, ivory against the burnt wood.