Reliquary

In the house of bone
the windows ache.
The gileded jars of saint'sfingers and shins 
are all labeled and neatly contained.
Temporal  fragments adorned and adored,
while hung in self conscious rows.
A room where you can scan the femur,  worship a thumb or wonder at a part of a rib.

Pieces of the saints, with scrimmed edges
scrolled mercilessly into a fine point.
one careless edge,
one slip,
and the bit gouges and fragments
bone into dust.

Time leaches the pale ribs
of all our frail cages.
Time mars the surface with lines,
and underneath fissures widen into craters.
We all wear poor frames that weaken under strain.

Still greedily we gather
amidst the past's shards.
We jar them and contain them
as if we could hold the greatness
with the dust.
And on, the single file line passes by
seeking redemption
in the house of bones.