There’s a hole in the anticipation waiting for the ground. It goes beyond a moment. It appears around the body, lying in the corner. Hoping for emptiness under the earth. Dreading that it carries on into the stuffiness. And people, no gap left by the personal space. Crushed. It’s more than physically lost. I can’t move. It’s a hole, I need to get out. No, world. What can hear me, I am forgotten. The hole, another face in an organised crowd, is recognisable. Filled with dirt. Certain people begin to speak but we feel empty. They leave spaces behind. New people arrive. Time happens, which sets them behind, apart from the rest. Like the earth covers the grave, so we, with a struggle, put it from our face and minds for the way back.
I wrote this using a poetry engine. You write the first things that come to your head about two objects in a column each, I chose Grave and Bus journey. Then you read across the two columns and combine the two. Obviously lots of editing is sometimes necessary!