Dan Pinkerton



It was a buzzing entryway he approached,
a shimmering quadrant of energy,
delicious-seeming in the manner
of engine coolant. Stepping through,

he became a room-sized elephant
in an elephant-sized room. When he withdrew,
the same electrified no-man's land
awaited, the same mirrored hall. It was

a Tuesday. The clouds had come to bear.
The children needed bathed and fed. During                
these circuits his flesh had grown slack
yet he continued flexing his vocal cords

for he'd heard that sound could drift endlessly
in the cosmos, even after the speaking
bones had granulated and the children
had become new dust settling atop the old.



"The Speaking Bones" was part of a series I was doing where the final line of one poem became the first line of the next. It's a good exercise if you're looking to avoid old habits and explore new themes.