BURYING JACK

		I notice a child's marble
		shining in the black
		turn of a shovel, 
		as it spills into your grave.
		I see blind worms
		caressing the blue orb,
		fat with you, 
		curious as to what
		round thing dares block
		their path.  They feast
		on your carcass,
		carry strange gifts
		in their maws
		to spit at the object in sacrifice.
		Praying for vision,
		they nest in your skull
		and wait for a sign.
		Soon the marble ossifies
		into a single eye,
		twisting in the darkness
		of a new womb, pulsing
		with the heartbeat
		of vascillating rings of cilia
		and the splatter of raindrops
		eroding you free.
		The obelisk above -
		enscribed with mystic runes -
		is next.  They will bring
		you a body of stone.
		Years later you all find me
		reaching for the gun
		beneath my pillow,
		but bullets only break
		you into new slivers,
		live to regenerate
		newborn stones.
		And I give myself to you,
		a new gift
		from your worshipping 
		congregation of eyes,
		whom up till now
		have only speculated
		your history in myth.
		Having seen 
		your creator, 
		together
		they pick up the gun.
 


		- Michael A. Arnzen 

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