I can be engaged
In anything,
When the sense of shovel comes.
Smothering cold ashes.
I'm looking at your eyes
Til the sockets stand out;
I'm planting gardens
For growth;
When I installed the French Doors,
I heard the lid clap.
Everything's archetypal:
Snakes, cruciforms, swastikas.
Looking up, they become more profound
In the contrails and puzzles beyond my skies.
When Neanderthal heeled the first blade
To plant something or someone,
He didn't know the theory of the chaos effect.
His effect.
This would suffice as my last poem.
My pen is my shovel,
And I'm heeling it now,
Into you.