Bones And Veins

Look at my hands: hard bones
frame soft curved veins.
Fingers bend as I
take hold; or straighten
to point to a roadsign
marking a turn.

I believe I am turning
into a journey. My bones
are scribbled with signs
and paths follow my veins
crooked and straight.
What sort of map am I?

Or could it be that I
am only returning
across unmarked straits
past cliffs white as bone
from errands both vain
and unworthy? No sign

is given to me. Like sine
waves, the hopes that I
held rise and fall. Like vanes
on a windmill, turning
my heart spins; my bones
still point compass-straight.

Blood doesn't flow straight.
Let me be resigned
to travel in a cage of bone--
let it be that I
can go on without turning
that my journey not be vain...

Though the path forks like veins
in fine marble, let me go straight
past every false turning.
Though there are no signs
by the road, pray that I
at last will drag my bones

to the straight path, the unturning
where I will finally see a sign:
my veins, twined around my bones.