I Am Nothing and Neither

I am brittle when the day springs.
My anchored tongue of aged iron
tastes of brown rust. It rests
in an elliptic catenary and holds
fast until my morning coffee.

I am dug-up bones, popcorn ankles
and staccato knees. My sunken eyes
slowly resurface beneath refractory
glass, and pulse in time to the heavy
metal drum solo between my ears.

My salt-leathered skin stretches
sail-taut over fragile capillaries.
I am autumn leaves crumbling under
the foot-treads of my grandchildren.