His mate snapped a picture.

I posit
He had turned up evidence
For kind sight.
As the young child curled
Index and ******* into
The Cupped hand of
Slack-jawed wanderer;
Whispering
“The coffin is to remind them of their last end.”

He was astonished
To find the monks never
Spoke, rising at two,
and slept
in their coffins.

How bracing the air was
Down there.
I speculate
He had turned up
Evidence for
Kind sight.

We live from eight inches
Of top soil –
Containing  
Earthworms,
Bacteria,
Fungi.
Lillipution lingerings
Cling  
Within the gentle folds
Of carrot contorting beneath, with
probing tree roots.
As above –
Grasshopper carapace – hemolymph drunk  
Probing dew-imbibed grass blade.

Life goes on,
Rhythmically and quietly
Pulsating
With the warmth of hugs
Humming  - chest against chest.

In their coffins
I muse – they listen to the pulsing chamber
Echoing –
Breath drunk  - on inhale
Resonating about and within
Wooden niche.

A barrier built between
Ourselves and
The principle of darkness.
The letters
in which we write about the aphotic night
sky need not be black.