The Poet Reflects On The Nature Of His Body of Work

Dug a hole
with my face

Dug it wide but not deep
Then threw my face into a stream

Pulled it out sputtering
“damn, that’s cold”

to no one in particular
Scared a young couple on the bank half to death

They were so in love
I wanted to buy them a house

but of course I’d been digging
and still looked a sight so they screwed

I’d snotted myself solid
with dirt

and now it was mud
and I couldn’t breathe

Not sure what the hole was for
Not big enough for me

Maybe a dog-friend
familiar and lifelong dear

Maybe a bundle
made for concealment now

and discovery after I’m gone
A time capsule full of cryptic souvenirs

Maybe that young couple
will come back someday and find it

a pit of bones
or postcards from lost names

Maybe it’ll be a foundation
they’ll build that house on

and maybe one day the house will be haunted
and they’ll finally put two and two together

and one of them will say
“Remember that guy on the bank

who was soaking wet
muttering something

about digging a hole with only his face?
Remember how cold he said he was?

I can feel the chill now
Maybe we shouldn’t have built here

Maybe it wasn’t a sign
and now we’ve learned something

about making a home
on a crazy man’s strain

and we ought to move”
And they move

to a different river bank
less full of self-destruction and wasted efforts

and this saga of my folly will end there
leaving me to shake my head

in a good plain grave
someone else dug for me

still trying to clear my nose of dirt
while thinking about how little I really knew

of love and work
that time I shoved my face into the ground

and started to excavate
the shallow site of my future memorial