Brittle (Poetry)

Although I cannot see through flesh
I imagine bones laid pale as pipework
fluted with age and growing thinner —
worn — as though I’d run them far too hard.

Everything I am relies on them — my layers
simply wrap around — they are the hanger for my overcoat
of tweedy flesh — the retro styling shabby now
but stretched to see a few more winters out.

X-rays show a ghost I do not recognise —
I cannot tell my long bones from the rest —
these lightscapes that I own should at the very least
seem more familiar somehow.

Hidden in unconscious treachery
they still serve even though I’m well aware
of fading strength and unreliability —
a tree that leans — a worm beneath the bark.