a fantasy of ancients

 

three minor keys of dusty bones
appear from gray blue smoke;
they windmill arms akimbo
around a mound of castoff rags;
they growl shriek howl,
sideways sashay with cramp-ed slides

they antic dance and mimic bow;
they sack the piled rejection
of worn sole shoes and mismatched socks,
of grime stained  pants and ragged shirts,
a wooden leg, a glass cracked eye,
red wig…stained bandage stash

into full fathom coats and rubber boots
they stuff their loot as if it were all treasure
to disappear as limitless and formless as its start
as warmth appearance healing comfort; then
they disappear into a wisp-ed trailing fog,
into a fantasy of ancients…into a laughter

Bonnie Marshall

Artist: Joseph Beuys
“Witches Spitting Fire” 1959