sometimes I wonder about my life
here in darkness, here with bones
here in this hole in the dust.
who knew that a hole could be full
of anything but blank and black?
It’s full of me, and full of bones, and back
lifted, arched towards the sky
an umbrella raised to shelter some
deep work of resurrection and roses.
Roses, and Holy Saturday
that is my life, caught between
the knitting needles of time and its end…
hung, strung, in one
big long wait in darkness
and no sound and no breath.
outside, I hear rumors of things
like stars wheeling and cards dealing
and people crying, lonely sighing