Excavation
Digging between the folds of love
Tell me how we hollow out a vine
from its narrowed plasma—
where time effortlessly breathes
beneath green folds.
Our cave is already tender
stalactites holding syncopated rhythms
years folded between us, wet limestone,
remembering every drop.
Tell me how to excavate these bones
the way spring opens a river
how the marrow gives up its dead
the way a mouth gives up sorrow.
How does the cavern give up melancholy for what was, is, and could be? I suppose in this way.
Thank you. It’s beautiful. I’m still at the point in this journey where I don’t know quite why.