I am exhausted from digging graves
deep enough to plant onions
and potatoes without disturbing the dead come harvest.
I see cross hatched fields in shadow.
I see a baby crawl through a minefield.
I see crows grow fat no matter how quickly I dig.
As the traumas displace a subliminal ocean
I begin to see the odd beauty
of a four hole button
half crushed to jagged fragments,
the other half solid beyond expectation.
How frayed threads hold the button to the coat.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 