Exhumations

Exhumations

Breathe in, but shallowly,

slowly;

the dust of ages,

bearing mummied freight of years,

glints in light's lone shaft.

You forget

what may be down here,

what you left down here.

When the knife is buried,

implicit is its unlooked-for exhumation;

when you bury something,

its release becomes a prophecy,

so don't breathe,

till the dots swim in your head,

and vision tunnels through the rock,

and you wake up from

the latest fugue,

the city inundated with flowers

birdsong, and

the breezes of a spring

you never saw coming.

And where

were your urgent feet taking you

on this brand new day?