The loved one’s bones cannot be all that good when in the clay-pot. The clay-pot cannot be all that good if hurled in mid-waters, with a promise not to turn back.
The promise cannot be all that good if the boat has turned back from eddy. The eddy cannot be all that good if it closes too soon after the paddle.
But the world is fifty percent terrible. By a conservative estimate. The realtor chirps on about the good bones even if he walks you through shit-hole. Keep this from children. You have to sell them the world. The world is good bones, isn’t it? You can make it beautiful.
Children are good bones. They are fragile bones. Their cartilage is soft bones between flesh and flesh. Life is short . I keep this from my children.
( referring to Maggie Smith’s poem “Good Bones” that went viral recently)