Disintegrating Figure

You intend fire and ash,
But dirt’s been on your mind.
Arrangements have been made

For cremation, but dreams
Have been circling the grave.
Makes sense if you divide

Your afterlife between
What happens to the flesh
And to the words you’ve left.

Divide it as body
And soul, if you prefer,
And that also makes sense,

Up to a certain point—
Reversing the graveyard
Arrangement of bodies

As rot in soil and soul
As vapors dispersing,
Leaving body as text

And counting the soul as Earth’s
Pure disintegration.
Up to a certain point,

The analogy works,
The best you can ever
Say of figured language.

There’s no questioning—dirt,
For whatever reasons,
Keeps making itself part

Of such analogies,
Good or bad, that grab you.
Think of writing a poem,

This poem, any poem, lines
Of poetic language
You’d like to accomplish,

And you think of treasure,
Of a hoard in the soil,
Lightless below the phase

Transition to bright air.
You think of the hidden,
Sweet-smelling acreage

Under the roots, the roots
That shelter the treasure,
The poem that waits, date-stamped,

Dug to be discovered,
Passages made to be
Found as though always there

In place of passages
Always there, made to be
Seen as discovery.