I’m a pile of bones,
clattering, too loud for a jaunt through the desert.
Fold me up, a wooden marionette,
put me in the chest with the other
old toys and scrapbooks.
Or take me, piece by piece,
detaching me by two-foot lengths,
line me up and wonder me
into something new—use these bones
like Lincoln logs, build me into a cabin
where caterpillars crawl to spin themselves
a tight bed, where within,
wings are made.