DEATH OF SONG

there was not a word left

i had taken me apart
and scraped the skin
from the inside
and wrung the liver out
and squeezed the lungs
and there was nothing
there but dust

the bones
were a sticky
pile on the table
and i fondled
each
as though blind
and searching for braille,
fumbling
for something
whispered,
some secret
etched in bone
and then
in desperation
for any pieces
i might string
to make a thing
but found only
starts
and stops
and empty places,
all fleshless
between my fingers
and maybe
i had nothing left
to say,
nothing worthy
of word
or rhyme

no cadence
or rhythm

no breath
or poetry

no art
or song