Dig Down

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?



Published by Kumi

Liaison to the Infinite.

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