I want to burrow into the ground
like a worm or a mole.
I want to nudge dirt clumps aside with my bare hands and
sink below the surface
into a secret safe spot of damp and malleable soil.
I don’t want a flashlight.
I don’t want matches.
I want to simply sit hunchbacked in the underneath,
feeling the roots of neighbor trees
stretch and wind
like spiders’ webs all around me,
and seeing nothing but black.
I want to be entirely surrounded—
every inch of me stiff and unmovable—
by the clay and the rocks and the sweet, soft soil,
letting it sift inward into my mouth
until it wholly consumes me, and I’m nothing anymore but a seed.