i tell you i want to be a gravedigger 

you say, "you know how deep you 
would have to dig?" i am guilty 
of romanticizing soil & thinking only
in terms of summertime. a shovel in hand
& nothing but the talk of doves.
breaking the first layer
of grass & weeds
is like pulling hair from 
my own skull.
i wouldn't put on headphones i would
listen to the shlack of lifted earth.
stand in the fissure, lowering myself
like a skeleton. postage stamp of blue sky above. 
cloud animals stampeding & telling one another
"someone has died." everyone knows
that the first stage after death
is to live a day as a cloud animal.
i hope i am a fox with a funhouse face. 
maybe what i'm craving 
is the promise of completion. 
how a wound can be excavated 
& healed. even that is not true though.
returners come with arms full
of flowers & pictures & food.  as a gravedigger i would
make it my duty to ensure 
each headstone's gifts remained 
perfectly placed despite the wind
& rain. maybe my desire then is 
to be a caretaker. to hold on 
to the liminal. to make a home here. 
i do not know how to respond to your question
about how deep i would have to dig. 
i answer concretely because sometimes
we have to talk in numbers
to say what we mean. "six feet.
that's taller than me."