The palps of the day spun past the flesh.
Feel the friction from the fingerprints of ghosts
Set vertebrae to spinning independently?
Sense the tunes shivering up through the neck.
Or don’t. Imperatives are nothing but dreck.
The manipulation continues, nonetheless.
The bones can be made to sing with soul
Never their own. The musicians of the spheres
Make a home of all moaning, wavering tones.
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