Oh, imaginary bone of our desert

Oh, imaginary bone of our desert
That weights more perhaps
Than water in the skin
Of a boiling time

Morning, that curveous lady,
Nothing to regret here
The sun displacing
Every sensible argument

As it happens, there was
A ghost of a moon
Dangling
in the sky last nite
Kissing
Goosebumped buildings

A sort of ancient itching
Of some ticklish void, maybe
Naked uncertainty
At the tip of the tongue
Or something