Duane Vorhees writes

My Fingers

Visit me in my mushroom tower and I will come to you

down this deep dark ditch amid tinder black flowers

down to the buttercups and dew.

My fingers have ridden through the forests of your hair

and slept on belly-gold prairies.

They’ve explored your hidden valleys, climbed snowcapped breasts,

and on your beach hips have rested.

Tanned and naked there you stand, strata in the earth in layers of

dark

light

dark

light

dark;

while (miners in anticipation) my fingers tremble….

And then it is we who are the layers in the dark, quaking among bedrock,

hardness melting into darkness, joining in new formations,

stalactite buried and unearthed buried unearthed buried unearthed

through the long geologeons of night

till finally separated by a fault

…and our sky becomes snow on coal.