Moving Shakespeare's Bones I set my hands upon the stone and left prints in the dust—so thick you could have swept it across the threshold and into oblivion. We who honor dead men's words are wary of curses, as if even that self-same act were violation: what bits and motes be bone, we cannot say.  And as for the fabled stone, it lies deaf to coaxing—no adoration in verse is sufficient to lift it, not even the imprint of its master's voice.  I'm able to wait out this ageless recitation for only so long.  Where words fail to gentle, I'll prise it until my fingers are bloodied with care: be moved, and I'll yet forebear. Adrienne J. Odasso If you've any comments on this poem, Adrienne J. Odasso would be pleased to hear from you.