Some mornings for no reason at all I take a shovel into the yard and dig. Am I digging my grave? Or is this simple labor? My great grandfather was a wheelwright in old Finland. He built sleighs and baby coffins, dug his share of holes. As I dig my American neighbors pass, observe and say nothing.
Alright. Everything above is untrue, save for the great grandfather.
You wouldn’t catch me doing manual labor under any circumstances. I’m lazy. I bury things in these poems.
Memory Rain Wind the shovel untouched standing in its corner.
Planet of the Blind 