An old song, this one
sounds like it belongs to
a time before this one,
refers to things
under this one, in fact
offers dirt on shovels
and deep wells
from getting it out, holes
in the earth itself.

The women singing it
are covered in blue soil,
are soft to the touch, will
disappear upon touch;
are they one with the dirt?

They finish. One lights
a cigarette taken
from a crumpled pack.
One leans on the other —
just another pair weary
after work.

In the pines a stone grows,
becomes a tree, a universe,
and the earth under the tree
stops moving with the world
that holds it.

A sound engineer
adjusts something, tweaks
a dial; for a moment
there is only one sound;
no one dares to move.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T