This square of side-yard sod
we’ve unearthed and bludgeoned
these November nights in silence,
the splattered source we’ve stomped
by porch-light, whose borders
we’ve bound with wooden beams
and curious stones stolen —
you shrugged — from two or three
national parks will, in time,
become a garden.
Tonight, there is just enough left
unsaid for us to still love each other.
We lug our stained, swollen limbs
through dim doorways until
we are clean and asleep.
If, but even possibly when
the first stalks cheat the seasons
with their own purple-beaded
schemes, I’ll ease myself inside,
I’ll burrow and bury my own bones
between the bulb-rows
of delphinium and hyacinth,
face down freezing but at peace,
bluer than the frost-glow at midnight.