the tunnel makers are no longer certain.
open the glass boxes where they keep
their tongues. turn headlights on
& get ready to become briefly
a part of the dirt. each night they work
they hope to cross pathes with another.
tangles & tangles of throat-building.
sometimes when i speak i feel
a tunnel maker. he hums a sideways hymn.
looks desperately in my dirt
for an ancient coin or a lover.
there are no plans for tunnels.
always dangerous. there was the one
i used to drive through to kiss you
on the other side. snow fell like cream.
i should have been more patient.
instead i opened holes in the yard.
dug through white through grass
& into the yellowed bone of it all.
the thing about a tunnel maker is
he knows nothing of an other side.
believes only in the beginning.
i am then often the opposite
of a tunnel maker. i inspect endings
like necklaces. here is the clasp
that was supposed to hold you
around my neck. birds fly
into tunnels & stay so long
they turn into moles. gently
tunnel makers palm feed them.
i too want to be taken into
their wild darkness. follow close behind
as they dig. a tunnel both is
& isn't a grave. a final resting place.
dominion of worms. lengthing
like the universe's silver esaphogus.
nothing comes. nothing goes.
just goes deeper. i don't know
if i want to be a tunnel maker but i crave
the thrust of their lives.
they are everything i fear.
orbit traded for abyss.