a golden shovel after Wendell Berry
Let life become that hardest, real thing: I
have been asleep in a bed of blood, at rest
in a graveyard of days, in a stupor of work, in
love with skin and all its temptations. The
unmaking of this body is a grace
unlooked for. Let me loose the fingers of
those last nerve-endings, wheedling into the
last outposts of what I once called my world;
it is still so, just wider. Rain falls, and
this house is made of air and bone. I am
a candle with wind running through it – free.