I. Alive in Naked Earth
Holding shovel is a boy—not boy so much as a body growing.
How his skin—patch of ground—is like a bed. What can’t be
sown in youth? Clean well mouth—spring of throat. New. My
skin’s a stained sheet tied to a dry-line. I’ve asked him, to fold &
bury me? He’ll do as instructed. Spade corner to garden corner.
Hands of earth against my mouth—there was a time I believed
in the all consuming. I want to believe again. Holding a shovel,
is a boy. Buried alive, I reclaim something:
remember when love smelled like rain?