My thrift-store sweater,

bought for five bucks years ago,

still warms my old bones.

Once upon a war,

boys’ blood and bones, guts and gore—

what was it all for?

at the duck pond’s edge

on an autumn afternoon

feathers, blood, and bones

Ascetic

mountain ascetic—

no sweater, but a sutra

warming his old bones

Dog

An old dog nestles

in a pile of autumn leaves,

comforting his bones.

first week of the year—

after all these sunless days

a chill in my bones

tattered quilt

cannot warm my bones

one more night

in the same tight curl

so familiar to his bones

yellow cur sleeping

after forty years

the threadbare blue rebozo

barely warms her bones

what the foxes know

in their fur and fangs and bones—

feral purity