The Bones of Long Dead Poets

I know a place where they keep
the bones of long dead poets piled deep
upon dusty shelves meant for books.

I go there when I find
inspiration in short supply and,
pretending to browse and nothing more,
I steal those bones by the score.

William Blake's lower jaw, Clavicle of Millay,
two of T. S. Eliot's lower vertabrae.

All of these and more too numerous to say
have traveled home in my pockets
rattling all the way.

I keep these mortal pieces of transient genius
in a box beneath my bed,
hoping at night some lingering residue might
seep into my head.

No luck so far!