Home > Poetry > Bones
Gerald Costanzo
Published: Tue Oct 15 1974
Art: Paul TheriaultEver New (detail), 2022, acrylic and found paper on scavenged wood

This morning my thighbones
were missing, my head

had turned itself around &
since when is the anklebone

connected to the neckbone?
The kneebone to the toe?

It gets worse!
I can’t shake my hands or

feet, can’t throw my whole
self in anymore. Whatever

it’s all about, boy, is a
bad hokey-pokey.

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