English Mole

To push and push with raw pink claws like hands of shin. To tunnel my love through wet earth, wet stars — no one needs the underneath like me. I give you permission to grip me. To patrol the worm-drench of my thinking. To bite a worm’s head and cure the rest as cache. Your flesh, my flesh, your dead as dead, buried like a feeling. To push through that wet, a scrum of worms whittling my skin like a premonition. To have pushed mountains into hills, ragged sooth from the slid wall of healing. “Nothing,” said the suicide, “is as sad as recovery.” To work myself forward like a noun or an entry.