And then there was the underearth,
But not the same heartfelt sod
We read about as it grabbed St.Kevin
When he sat outstretched and stilled;
Nothing so gracious and forgiving
As the imagined dirt beneath his knee
Taking root there, almost comforting,
Holding to structure his misfortune.
No. This soil takes and does not return,
Folds and then refolds at the whim
Of some god awful dig-man with hands
Numb to the final shiver. The scratch
Of his spade a hollow drum roll
That will shake once and once again.
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