He mingles fingers, nails and hands

with dark, rich matter:

– seeds that burst, and hurt, and grow,

push green heads through and into

burning, searing sun –

mud. It gave up hope and slid

down here to fold up wood and iron.

– limbs that break, and hurt, and slow,

sink ever deeper down and into

soundless, silent dark –

And he remembers moulding these same hands

to dark, rich matter.

– flesh that yearns, and begs, and knows,

draws aching being deep and into

sweet, forever thirst.


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