My belief could never reside in a limestone, chiseled-out box.
Bones in them might as well be Pollo Tropical in an ossuary.
 
Memory is the real graveyard.  I picture a wishbone flecked with meat
drying on the back of a stove, and I want to howl.  That’s an ossuary.
 
Here, put your thumb and fingers here and pull, but wait till I say go
my mother, her words, the Thanksgiving turkey on the towel: an ossuary.
 
Freudian analysis, Thorazine, marijuana, Sonata, Ambien CR,
six decades and counting—sleep is still my tunnel into an ossuary.
 
And you, reader reading this, know damn well what I’m saying—
this poem, every hello/goodbye, every consonant and vowel: an ossuary.