Dirt

What is beneath the dirt
in all of these words
I search for an opening
but it is only pressing
how sick we've become
how repulsed
though maybe repulsive
in this crawling darkness

we can only become
what we've always been
and what eyes have gazed
upon the lumbering limbs
some mistakes made
in the shaping of things
behind mild skin
swings wild strings
cat-like with an early spring

stretching, feeling everything

back, and forth

and in every place
where with every death
we invent more space...
more space to fill with dirt