the blessing of a topsoil layer
all of it is corpses.
All of it.
Every inch of black sand
tan, loamy, dark, clay,
all of it is corpses
past, present, and future –
breaking down, building up
life as reinvention –
walking on four legs, three or two,
a sphinx’s riddle that ends in
one foot of topsoil,
waiting to spring up and
walk again.



