Underground

The windows of your palace show you worms
and ants and moles who dig deep tunnels,
their claws thick with loam, blind eyes
dark against the glass—they sense
your warmth, your loneliness. The creeping things of this world desire your company.
The air, thick with scents—flesh, dust,
old books and old wood and old dreams—
presses you into your throne. This twilight
life nibbles at the edges of your sanity
until you freeze, fear-shot,
the unexpected touch unbearable. Light
filters through the mica shades of lamps,
its wan glow pooling where it falls. All else
fades to the sound of small things
hunting in the earth. Perhaps a fox
made its den on the roof, against a chimney,
and perhaps you hear its kits rustling
above you. Perhaps only that.
Perhaps not.
You sink—the slow settling of dreams
and desires as your palace succumbs
to the tides of the earth. At the window,
fate draws a line—above, the black earth
of growing things, and below the red clay
squeezing itself to stone, squeezing
the windows, the walls, filling
your quiet halls with a damp, unfinished
scent. Deeper still, gray layers measure
ancient tides, and dead things turn to stone.
Your heart turns to stone,
the fossil at the center of your being,
displayed in the great hall of your palace.
And I? I set aside my shovel
and smile