It gathers weight
runs up and down
the backbone taut as the ocean is.
A bone house
I do not live inside.
The breastbone
points down,
down to the holy bone,
os sacrum,
sacred in its triangle
closed to all corners.
All sides are equal
and give weight to the legs.
Bone with muscle built in slabs.
A tongue wits brilliant tip.
Organs of knowing.
Small bones
that grow like shells
inside the ears.
A mysterious presence
inside, even you are here
like leftover stars
in morning.
Moods punctual as the full moon.
The mind sometimes restless
clear sometimes but constant
and sailing a course
hard to hold.
Add the aura of gold
and rose. A brain.
Thoughts controlled by
I am not my thoughts.