These words climb up out of the skeletons of words buried in desk drawers. They break free of word-skeletons worn thin and broken on outdated discs. They exist due to remains of finished ribcages, each right bone rhyming with its left, hidden somewhere in forgotten correspondence. City of HAPPY advertisements and FOAD graffiti, one x-ray overlaid on another, vision of overload, who is reading these words that quietly step from the boneyard of poetry past? These words spiral from skulls of wordless seventy years, smiling their oft-told odes to January, their bumptious limericks and yearn yarns, their own little golgothas.