The more he digs, the less he is, 
and the shovel turns bloody in
the red moon glow.
Strikes of rock and the dark earth wounds.
The distant heaves of heavenly others
frailing into their own personal ghosts
deeper, deeper, into nothing.

There must be something at the end, it's
the purpose of their disappearance.
They separate together, far from sight, out of 
reach.
The sound of grit as it cuts,
the chaos as it breaks,
the darkness assembling.

A full body beneath the surface now, no
head to speak of, limbs aeons extinct,
just the shovel whacks and silt attacking like
stories to tell yourself down the well,
exit music to wrack the panic.

Dig, dig deeper while the air allows
the search for secular sustenance.
Permit the ghost to crawl your bones
as you try to find 
something in the turf til
a curfew manifests as
a single golden iris
peering up.