The advantageous nature of digging one’s own grave

are we short-sighted in nature or by nature

Or by your short-sighted gleaning?

You cut me piece by piece

You sliced my well-worn mask,

And made me, forced me

I’d say, to open up my windowless, scratched up mirrors—-short-sighted

You’d say we both are—-

My eyes are open now.

And finally we saw the gleaming, blackened and burnt and hot white, blackberry, milky, greened like curled lips of a budded spring flower—-hips that my mother liked to show off to my dad when I wasn’t looking—-

Thankless, deathless, moony, fervent, grasping, kissing, laughing, licking star-sky.

And oh

My

Fucking

God,

You looked so damn gorgeous

In that moonlight.

You rare, unearthly, Moon-Milk-Eyes,

What are you made of,

Something more rare than anything that rare could be? You define it.

Even stuck with muddy shoes in a six foot grave I dug myself piece by piece, as short-sighted as I am,

I knew you were as real and as rare as that piece of heaven shining down on us, through that earthly lightning eve.