bridges of bones

i am building bridges made of bones with my bare hands. a yawning sunrise smiling like it's made of bees is spitting up all over the window but i'm keeping busy turning mountains to molehills, testing the ice with my pickaxe. your thoughts are constant paper airplanes in my airspace, though, so i know: she had legs for days and the round mouth of someone you kept your secrets away from, like weddings and widowers. but you spend all your time with typewriter keys now anyway--you'll sink like lead through that thinning ice.