Dig deep. Youíll find it there, inside or maybe buried
in the yard not far from the big oak near the fence.
What it may be, I cannot tell. Neither of us knows a thing,
when you come right down to it. Weíve spent our lives
turning away from meteors spinning by. What I mean
by that is simply this: we never looked in the places
where people bury things. Why? I must believe
we didnít want to know, we never wished to find
monstrosities with their shrouds covered in filth.
Would we have to finger bones, skulls, back away
from grave worms wriggling in the mud?
I had a cat once that danced around a chair chasing its tail.
Sometimes it hopped up and spun round and round
through the open end at the back. My mother fed it on liver
and cream but I chased it through the house with a lariat,
trying to rope it with a toss of my wrist.
God, how I hated that cat. It disappeared one day in June.
I said a prayer to the cat god when I went to the well
that afternoon. Are you hearing me?
What Iím telling you is nothing less than this: be bold,
dig deep. There beside the well, beside the oak, near the fence
it may be buried six feet down. Dig until your hands bleed,
then go home and have a glass of wine. The sky will turn,
I guarantee it, and you will sleep tonight in the dark arms of
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be
pleased to hear them.