You might furtively slip away with the bones of Anne of Bohemia,
a finger joint tucked smartly into your wide high-colored waistband,
a softened reliquary, hardness abutted by lint. She lived so long ago
that her goodness is a doe or a lamb or a flask. Her slight black bones
could cure you. You don’t care to ask if this, or if anything, is true.

Inside your house, other houses crouched, box-leaning seen,
unlike the leaning of skyscrapers, girders bowing in high wind.
Concentrated in you, the need to amass, to heave with the presence
of things. What is left of Anne is what you are carrying,
what is left is what you assigned a cranny. How is the city different?

There is more than one location assigned specifically to coffee
within a one block-radius. People task themselves with typing,
with washing down sidewalks, or with categorizing old mineshafts.
We pause in the glare of windows in the sunshine, we hive or hide,
we meet or separate like sighs tipping the ends of embers.