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.