DEATH IS THE DEEPEST HOLE

Death is the deepest hole, and when he fell in, I tried to
save him, having pulled him out of holes before, so
I lay down, pressed to the ground, flattened to a
shadow’s edge, my chin buried deep in rocks and
and sand, and reaching down past dreams,
past dusk, felt fingers touching mine
slide by, while he called out, “Fare-
well.” I held my breath, I be-
came an ear. But the hole
gave only a sea shell’s
roar, so I lay still,
all swaddled in
cotton balls
and velvet,
enclosed in
silences so
vast they
could split
your head,
or peel
you
from
the
inside
out.

Death.
Deep
hole.
The
gathering
night.
Stillness.
Peace,
at last.

September 16. 2007

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
Contact Bill Schechter