Eventually I find the shovel
upright in the blackened pile
of compost behind the garage.
It’s hard to see in this light,
but everything looks much as
I left it last fall–shriveled ears
of orange peel, a few egg shell
fingernails, corncobs sticking up
like bones in an ancient grave.
As I turn the mound over
a couple of turns for good
measure, the moon breaks out
of a heavy cloud and brightens
momentarily with a grisly smile.
The dark goes on rising up
around me, turning everything
under like the swell you never
hear coming up behind you.
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