These Constant Remembrances of Remaining Matter

for Mae
These soft hearts are our apology for the Earth.
To lie down in the darkness of dense dirt,
ply our fingers through the layers, leading deep
in our practice with the crumbling clay of our sleep, 
digging our way through the clay of the beautiful body
until we break fingernails in our lovemaking with Her. 

With the silly pose of stillness, our holy-held hands 
feel each other out and bond in the beginning decay,
our supple, strange, suitable vegetable selves fall
apart, underneath the barreled bodies of fallen trees
in a shady place, in the gloaming before the dark.

We all perish and leave these decorated and useless rooms 
of earthly trappings, the things we attain from birth 
like you, as a young girl with a new and pretty doll,
like you, giving the body of your own doll for the feeding.

In the end, we are the spectacular agents of our awakening
with these eyeless cups and hollow mouths we bear. 
To the flowers and trees we give the still breeze-breath
and return love to love, and life unto that spiral life. 
For, our only offer is the weak sacrament of flesh and blood
so the Earwig may eat entirely and become an immanent entity.