An oven’s key inside the bread
Earth’s Brown outer covering
Earth’s warm roast flesh.
The blood cavern bakes us in deeper,
Past the Last Mole.
Dig in a step further, under the molehole’s folds,
Dig in, in retention, for the Earth’s sky.
Craftwork all horizon’s oppositions into vertices
And adopt artifice under a new world,
A digging horizon.
Has your tunnel…a porthole?
The sun still…pulls the bud?
The mammal… she still sucks the milk?
“It,” when it “is,” flees from “also,”
Sowing seed-plants and growth.
If you regard that growth which after long will stop,
Yet it is also long stopping,
Then that growth is neglectful.
That growth is of the view’s edge,
The moon petal slivers,
The blue color trembles,
From the water-drop dry leaf’s pollen.