Broken Thing

Nothing I've done
to repair

my broken bone

has bleached the marrow
from its darkening trend, slower
than December...

...it spreads.  Nothing
I say, I do or hear
as I hobble over graveyards,

my mass a solemn crunch upon the drying leaves.
Nothing will return-- might as well

fall down below and see how deep
rabbits can burrow.

 but now on the floor of some
 bottomless pit of yore, I
   bemoan the nothing I feel
   below my waist.

Conserve the nothing like it

could save me, but legs
have nothing to do, nothing to do

but run away, captured in the
cave of the sun, the trap of daylight.
So settle in, broken thing, and swell

and discolor however you may.