The bones of our friendship accuse me,
brittle; not gleaming, dull and dry, resonant of forgetfulness
their facticity desiccating, chipping, drifting
into obscure cracks in the ossuary of recollection.
Each mute bone is a stick upon taught silence
rat-tat-tatting a twisting wheezing death roll
bones drumming for an audience of none,
echoing through the past,
oblivious to the cadence of the living.
There is no salvation from the wheel.
You turn and spin,
a constellation in my memories.
Rat-tat-tat
Amogasidi!
Do not be deterred.
Align the maze.
Open the door from Samsara!
Rat-tat-tat.
