Poetry

In moments of hubris,
of artificial hip,
the most unknowable thing was
the blood thought.
 
An invisible ink, of late
marks the error
of autumn. A lone survivor
of leaves of time, would not
break the word.
 
The donated eyes will not
see the dreams. You can
boil the bones to get the truth.
Somewhere a guilt prospers.
 
It is what you don't think.