there is a place that we go
deep down, where the bones are stones
and the gongs from death knell songs
herald our descent below.
unforgiven is the earth,
the silt harbor where we berth
where glades of grass line the hems
of dry oxbow lanes and sullen glens.
there is a depth that is not known
where limbs and legs are overgrown
by roots and lies that have not gone
down dark steppes alone.
even after silence piles
over mounds of dirt and stones defiled
there is no greater loss or somber line
than the space that lies between vim and vine.