Root Cap

buried

I can think of life
thanks to things like the weather of light—this erosion of emptiness in effort
to raise the dead from that in which I thank those who think of death instead

a seed

the interred

the sun endeavors, confident its dark—no longer an “intent”
tending instead toward our existence (“nothing” than its effort)
—is engendered.

how is this so? regard the pores
that holes under take

an embryo’s appetite

awake

year end nothingness

what is it that waits this way?

not death. that waits in the green annulus

& not sex. that wait wastes cambium

i think the wait is the way we sleep

—in the dark a fire that waits for trees

dirt

when pupa is mistaken for pupa & its fate for a fly
the hole, mistaken for a hole & its end for the end
than “the end” is not the great nest we’re in, but
—how else to say it? —a grave beginning

fire sleeps when seeds wake
& fire wakes when sleep
the "beneath" all seeds give way
gives way

sleep

to die is to receive what is life-giving
can a seed bare itself a more perfect oblivion?
each & every seed surrenders the once & future tree
no, not that god is—but death will be!

Covered

the dark stuff of thought the dead take care to wake the wild with, makes us, who most rely upon the sun to shine, take up desire—for what is a seed if not the need to bury in sleep so that in dream we who live may, well, think?

a ravished flower

root for the dark

to grow is to bury the bearing forth
until the bearing forth that is buried
bears fruit by that which is barren
for "that which is" (being a void)
is like the one a seed will die for

a soil pore