Holes

Back hunched, I work the soil
It's moist and smooth,
From yesterday's rain.
The sun has just come up and hasn't
Dried the earth just yet.
A seed goes in and a flower shoots up,
I move on to the next

In this one I place a beating heart,
After patting the soil with the back
Of the worn and rusty trowel,
Blood starts to seep up.
I ignore it and wait until I see the
Sleeve of the jacket I've worn for many years

The next hole is waiting
And I feverishly add the crumpled dollar bills,
Sweat beading on my brow.
As soon as it's covered,
The dry brown thorns snake
To cover it like a bodyguard

I work faster now, the day is drawing to a close
The sun is dripping into the horizon.
My eyes are a bit blurry,
My skin a little clammy,
But I need to finish my task

Next goes the cold, black gun,
The dirt in this hole is starting to smell of rot.
Bullets rain up into the space above,
I hear glass shattering behind me
And swear I can taste the innocence
As my stomach releases its contents

I count out the little white pills,
Dropping two at a time into the next hole,
Until I reach fifty-two.
Nothing comes out after I've cleanly
Patted the dirt on top,
Because this hole is too numb

Stars have ignited as beacons
And I feel the exhaustion creeping in,
I lay my trowel down next to tomorrow's holes.
I can no longer see,
But I do not need to see
With my eyes to find my way home.

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