The holes get a tiny bit bigger every day.
I hide the dirt piles everywhere; in china
teacups, metal sauce pans, stuffed in
pockets where it seeps out from the frayed
fabric, making trails down the streets I walk each day.
Washing never takes away the stain, black
underneath the nails, red clay tinting my hand
a dark umber, teasing me with hints of what
will surely be my future, my final resting place.
Where I go, the devil finds me, following
the tracks I leave, waiting, stern and patient,
for the time I lay my body down, the hole
well dug, deep dug, and now, at last, complete.
Until then, I dig a little every day,
but I use a very small spoon.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0vkAHGOYN
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