in sand with a stick he needed to beat
back water's wave.
He didn't get the chance. You're not the boss
of him besides, old man. Get your feet
off my cold wet grave.
There aren't enough trains to take
the bones to their belonging. Set sail
or help him put things right.
You can't do both. I asked God to make
my arms into maces and flail
everything in sight.
These days God is a lonely bitch
and won't do anything I ask. I take a seat
the river. The purpose of the skeleton is to hitch
meat to. The purpose of the meat
is not yet clear.
Jeremy Glazier's poems have appeared in The Paris Review and Verse. His work is forthcoming in The Paris Review and Denver Quarterly.
Originally published in the February/March 2002 issue of Boston Review