Unmovable

The blades of the shoulder flower at the slope of the clavicle,
protruding out onto cut air and pinched nerves  
whenever bone and fats sit into the same oxygen.  
From distilled pixels of still rock, knowing bone is not alive, but decked in ruby meats  
wrinkled through skin and unto misalignment,  
an eaten cheek twitches.  
No skeleton sleeps;  
though, the burden animal rife of fillets and cuts  
is a conscious creature.  
  
And the bone  
whistles between the weights of the elements of its stockpile.  
Like a building leans to its side  
without a live stake in its cracks and contusions,  
and the knuckles square out pressure.  
   
The pelvis creaks, tilted to a side ⁠  
—in a sleep wringing out the apathetic balance of the unitized body beneath a floor pan.  
Poisons can't entrench in the calcified face,  
but residual and compounded trauma... and a frame of calcium wears inoperable.  
The knees curve.  
The feet fall over each other at the clumsy blunt of inertia.  
   
Reaching up from a concave support  
until arthritis has edged the eraser out to wire bands,  
a person  
folds into a cicada shell  
and dissipates.