Wet drops out of the cotton-bag, rain falls
into the thirsty cobbled cracks,
Unearths the earthworm, seemed drowning
enough, twisted like a corkscrew
Second carcass lies by the elm root, moles look
neutral as they place the headstones.
Blackened sky’s dome a sinister place, moles
with their white hands uplifted in
Safe haven by an aging church — scarred by
an old war,
Below, stiffened in a family pose, the veterans sleep,
down there one is alone.
Outsize calloused hands open another vein,
delving for the appendages
Of centipedes and beetles — turn the earth over
And still the slogging rain falls, yet vanishes quickly
into the breach
The final surfeit of the cloud doors are just as far.
The shovel moves through the mute rooms of
clay and soil,
Pushing the roots aside like the mole grubbers
after the sweetbread
What happens, happens in darkness, then
Easy and often as a last breath.
Copyright © 06/28/17 lance sheridan®