Six late-August evenings (4)

4.
When I woke the hole inside my dream was being filled
By something blacker than the night-soil

For an hour I watched awake on my bed as if from underground
As if being awake were something buried in my dream

Observing the cross section of my spirit and I understood
Each root was a person whose spirit had grafted invisibly

And fed the visible and I knew with certainty
The hole being filled was where my father had been

What it was filled with I did not know I only knew
I had to wake but there was no additional waking

There was no news in the morning to carry that loss
So it seeped into me as if I were a hole recently dug

It could have been that morning it will be another
I have already lived it realizing what I think is real

Is another seed buried in a night of wild sounds
Another empty pod from which a dream has grown

Waking up again to the darkness in the dark filling
To the sound of absence pouring into the future