Sonnet

I was cold.
You wove me a mantle of smoke.
I was thirsty.
You sent me a cloud in a crate.
You sent me a note.
You sent me a crate in a crate with a note saying bury this.
So I struck off with my shovel & never came back.
When the digging was over, I buried shovel.
I buried it deeper.
Tendered my prospects to dusk.
Some men will make a grave out of anything.
Anything.
It depends on how lonely they get.
Times when a body could dig through the night.




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