spade

the spade cuts down and in,
and pushes through defenseless loam
it severs worms and webs of roots
and scrapes against smooth stones

the earth is made of past
it piles up unevenly
it makes great mountains over acts
too horrible to see

it piles mounds and hills above
each person's secret shame
but you and I were nothing wrong
I'm standing in a plain

with dry grass rustling hip-high,
my spade works in and down
I unearth things, a tarnished ring
an envelope, a portrait's frown

I breathe in earth's exhaling sigh
uncover sign and trace of us
but nothing more - there's nothing left
no locked-box treasure, sealed with rust

the past has swallowed all we were
and left just spreading roots and worms
the earth below broods rich and brown
the earth above
turns