nebraska ( digging )
you wake up in the morning under four blue blankets and a half-finished ceiling after a girl and a stranger spend the whole night fucking two rooms away, which shook all the unfinished walls, all heavy breath & whimpering, and when you finally slept you dreamt of making love to the president. it is september and feels like september. you spend the morning along thinking of duty and honor, digging a hole alone, dark dirt so dark almost black in the core. you wound a toad with your shovel – a mistake, you hadn’t seen – its side spilling small organs out, but it’s still alive when you have to toss it away, into the field, & at the same moment as you become teary at killing this small thing a scottish someone comes down the hill weeping, homesick. so you both cry a little, and go back to digging, and the someone goes up the hill to a barn, to dig or sing or bead, you don’t know. you cross the fields looking for something to write a poem on, a box or a door or a window frame and find all of these things but none quite right. you ask a man if he will go swim with you but he says he has to dig a hole, he is three feet down and he needs to be six, for the well for the instrument for the tomb, and all this is true.