I dig down, down where the flowers grow.
Hoping for a butterfly but accepting a new spin on anything.
Summoning in some fanatic way an escort service
To send over someone to untie my shoes.
I dig down, down where the soil is rich and there is room for viability.
I come up on the other side of Mallorca, out of breath, out of life.
There’s the curtain. Get on the other side. It’s too thick, too large.
I dig down. There’s depth. But I’m not a digger. Why pretend?
I close my eyes with the shovel still in my hands.
I’m not a gardener, not a grave digger, I don’t do wells.
The weight of the shovel feels heavy. Now it’s a baton.
The orchestra begins playing. The music continues without a conductor.
The hands go limp. Lethargy. Maybe apathy.
Who orders them? Who is giving the recommendations of what is needed?