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“...be not afraid of my body.” –Walt Whitman
Come to me stones,
things of this ground,
gourds and grass,
ash and dust, of course,
things that sleep below
the fire in this black bowl
under the swollen moon.
Whisper secrets to me ground,
dirt, clay, oil well, tear ducts of this mass.
Give me something to dig up,
catalogue, tag, or study—
the rib of some ancient uncle,
slight curve, a boomerang or bow,
free of sinew, tired, old,
like a gentle half of an oval.
Give me precious stones,
starched coal, light and sadness,
give me back the soil,
a place of rest, a quiet canopy,
a casket, an ossuary;
this ground my beginning
and the end of every thing.