Burial

.

Kneeling by the dry pond, her shins

scratched pink are losing heat to space.

Her knuckles blossom violet, their nobbled bodies

flagrant; crude as mistakes.

They are loaded dice as her ring slips off.

This is how stones are made:

Earth compresses in her fist.

The box is a folded surface

just like her.

Soil shifts like a living thing

making speeches. Her arm is a thick trunk

with its tongue in the dirt,

knows Earth is a safe place

where time is measured

by warmth instead of numbers. If you dig

deep enough, warmth is constant

and under all this concrete there’s the quickening.