In Soil, Bury the Dead
By Bradley Earle Hoge

Imagine waking in the dark. Grasping
for hand hold. If your hand touches water
you’re a fish, if rock, lichen, if soil, worm.
As your eyes adjust to the dark, the spring
becomes the source for all nourishment, rock
becomes your stage, soil the unsteadiness
of change. You scramble for the rock, you bless
it for its solid eternity. Walk
into the light and see the world endless,
touch footprint, breath smoke, sharpen spear head.
Bear loss, justify hate. Kill, manifest
piety. In soil, bury the dead.

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