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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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