I am told to keep my shadow busy.
I am to some the one to do a lowly job,
and because years have bent me
lowest to the earth,
I do it well into the fading light.

As the night shifts, my shadow works
within me like a chill,
yet I know while I feel his shivers
that I have time to burn.

The other side of the moon turns around tonight,
shades my face from the stars
climbing higher above me,
while I dig for an answer come from darkness.
My shovel frames a perfect black window.
I keep my head just above it,
watch the lost world of foggy street lights
swaying and smearing,
a thick wind turning visible and mean,
wrecking bats and rescues.

Time is another impatient hole
I cannot crawl out of.
I have never gotten to the bottom of a grave,
nor have seen who in the black hole
twists the brightest light into nothing.

And I dare not weep
for those more dead than I.
Tears could harden into glass,
cut my outstretched hands
that could not break their fall.


© 2009 by Robert S. King. All rights reserved.