You still eat roots the way each footstep
put together this hillside
as if it was once a pond and slowly
dried for the afternoon–a simple life
when each meal stays warm
though you were lowered with the same rope
mourners bring as in Here it is
and the grass flows clearer
than the way you go around
with both hands folded as if your grave
was born joined to these others
sweetened by them and time to time.
To keep from breathing you cough
the way these two stuffed pillows
still float on the bed
wanting to fly off together
–you have been given
an advantage, are aroused
by snow melting in your throat
as flowers and footprints
though another year has gone by
and your lips shrunk down
to the bone–you dead
are warmed by a fever
no longer in one piece
has barely enough dirt
to hide the afternoon
that knows all about burials
becoming rain by listening
for your cough, can hear it
rising from this bed
as your breath with nothing’s wrong
till suddenly it’s louder.
It starts at the foundry, softens
then flows slowly past
though the nail you’ve just pulled up
is already bending over, gasping for air
knows all about rust
from the way a summer breeze
will comfort the still warm air
and together eat and eat and eat
–who can make it breathe again
be more merciful, let it wait
till the board finds another board
a corner and though there’s nothing inside
it’s enough–who but you
digs with a hammer, hand over hand
looking for the others.