Ghost Sonnet

The hammer and the pulsing drum that ring
inside my ear like voices singing clear,
these tiny bones that float in darkness bring
all sounds into my waking brain: I hear!
Those quiet specks become my walking stick
stuck deep into the streambed as I leap
from shore to shore - the river rocks are slick-
how small the sounds, the bones that balance keep.
Without those sturdy sticks we should fall down,
live robbed of height and breath and summer light,
lie still as skeletons in dry ghost towns
beneath the canyon walls out west. My sight
keeps on, my hearing right, these feet stay true,
in truth, these bones are you, they're you, it's you.