Rest your weary bones

Rest your weary bones
 
Read this poem carefully,
though most of it is nonsense. 
 
Words are a trifle, anyway – flotsam in the stream.
The author, I am told, is a fictional character
 
who tends to use images that carry no weight.
It’s best to let him take it where he will,
 
if you should be kind enough
to grant him an audience.  
 
Born on the open sea, he wishes now
for a spot of sure-footing, 
 
no larger, mind you, than the size of a casket,
where the scenery changes only with the seasons.
 
O child of God, the Buddhists speak of no abiding self.
You search only for a place to rest your weary bones.