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Those Are My Bones

Those are my bones in an old blue sweater

clutching at a heart

with hands that I have come to know

shaping works of art


Those are my bones


Those are the bells of San Sebastian

that call the monks to prayer,

and wake her every morning

as they echo through the square.


Those are mourners in a line

on a too cold too wet morn.

They lynched him in the courthouse yard

the day his son was born.


That’s the air I memorized

resigned to getting older

with hands that I have come to know,

and crying on a shoulder.

© Michael Worthington Music 2019

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