Undigging

Because I’m from that area of greyish gloopy brown, where sky meets soil in the manner of thinning hair upon skin. I’m from there. Know me.

I’m from there. There is nowhere but the earth itself, fighting the air for space inside itself. If you look inside the soul of ‘there’ you’ll see the webs and dust and other things that would suggest no one has been there: for years.

Stop dividing up the world beneath and between my feet like it’s got to be, just GOT to be carved like a sunday roast. Yet perhaps it is our feet that inflict the incisions. Not from decisions, no, just by chance.

It’s chance that brought me back and chance that chose to put you in the way of my Raleigh. Now, I’ve given it a name. Bow down.

I’m not digging it up again. You do, you make me want to dive into the earth and not re-surface and I’m tired of having my soul looted like the lair of a handyman. Chisel chin.

Softly softly. He’s not alone in the old, cold field. We’ll come too, soon, and make like cornrows in the sun. It’s always sunny on that mountain.

And I thought I should mention: we should never carve the soil up, in our minds or with our words, to make it ‘ours’. We only need to dig when we intend on diving in.

Not yet. Again.

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