May 24
dayprovidential's picture

I Wish An End to Burial

Time is a many-handled shovel, my brain a grave-digger
with hands enough to hold.
Here is the grave of fifteen empty lines
that time's blade splits in dirt;
here are the words that grow from me
to curl into their seeds within the earth
and die in days, unwatered.

I wish an end to burial;
my wishing acts as trowel
and clicks against older bones
where personhood has fled. I lay them down,
a thousand paper flowers by the stone, handwritten pleas
for earth to cover earth. If I dig far
enough into the cold I'll find
with aching fingers that final symphony
of dirt

or so I'm told. Beneath the words,
above my home, ribs piled deep like cairns:
My brain the grave-digger etches in words with time
and draws a lonely rest.
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