Your blood owns no bones,nWith mailmen in your homenHolding a knife to your poemsnTo hollow all you’re sownnAnd holler ‘goner, you’re owned.’nnAnd supposing you was meant to be bent born some sort of law man,nWith the poise of an intellectual and hunch of a clerk,nAnd disposition of a saintnAnd they’d say,n“he is always with cancel eye and ever correct’ nAnd knowing thatnAre you lessnIn the ever so complicated endeavor of a human deathnnThere are only two species set to death on earthnThe creature of choicenAnd the creaturennWhere in the human whonAre you?nS nAnd supposing you was meant to be bent sole keepernOf the kilometer-long list of things certain to be so.nThe human plight right there in 1’s and 0’s.nAnd he who knows all that’s owednYou’d think would be considerably more fearless,nUnless, of course, he feels this n Heat of something coming to adjust his nEminence accordinglynnTo go on stealing poems,nFrom the homed armed with only a key combnLetter opener carved from bone wish,nWith which to picknThe simple levers of locksnTo fly things well beyond the sky of your clock.nnYour blood owns no bones,nWith mailmen in your homenHolding a knife to your poemsnTo hollow all you’re sownnAnd holler ‘goner, you’re owned.’