the bones come back black. holy rolling down the hills and salt to fill in the quiet places. linden in bloom. quiet city. streets so wide and sidewalks waiting. a wish to land here and a dread of landing. i wish this was the place. the backyard. the cellar. the desert west. the steep to the east. all these faces shining on the shore and a breathlessness that binds my words and keeps the deepest pieces deep. i want to shake free of me and  just enjoy each in their being, but i bumble. i seek grace and find all elbows. send out the kites and the bones come back black. lack of lightening.