Bone Density

Winter highways give me bone density tests on the daily.

They say my bones are denser than my head can handle.

I wait for words, set fire to the sound a sheep makes in my brain.

It’s the kind of flame that heals us from our loss of touch,

From a swirling nothingness that follows its own path.

Those grains of sand my mind still knows will turn to glass,

And they’re crystallizing in my eye like bits of light that someday

Will have something to say about the questions no one can answer.

It’s still a question of what to do with density in the skull.

Why your bones wonder why you tell them what to ask.

Why you love the type of sun that hangs just outside your eye

And you wish you had wings: the most deafening quiet on earth.