gathered and stacked, out back, behind the house, against that tree
neatly, like cord wood. soon a home for moss and mice.
perhaps a blue tarp covers it all

dusted and peeled, fit, tightly, in a crisp paper box
labeled and filed, stored in the attic among the chairs and sewing machines
neat handwriting on neat labels

tossed and flung, with eyes shut, into the fireplace
lit, turning to ash, smoke and fire, into the earth and into the air
maybe we'll have a bar-b-que and the coals will mix

left and forgotten, casually, lost and unremembered somewhere
unnoticed, the combination to 20 year old lock, neither here nor there
they join the lost socks and things as important as toe nail clippings

we stack our bones, we burn them, we bury them amongst our detritus
cuddle them, make uncomfortable beds from them
sleep on those beds and clutch the discomfort they give us

it is that discomfort, like a scratchy pillow, like a sneaker that fits,
but doesn't
that brings the bones to their place

cast them away with lint
with fliers advertising window tinting
and the bones, though molding, stored, burnt, unremembered

they make and increase our foundation
that supports the ever growing house called our lives