Digger, the moons
of your nails are

black. You dug
through night, and now
you dig through

dawn. You broke
to find, but now you
break to

break. And what you

that is no prayer.

Knowledge must have
a shape; therefore it

happens where
light can’t

get through. Where
light is thwarted, bent,
bent back,

resisted by the
form of the

thing, flesh, stem and
shell, says I

would rather be
myself than you.

Digger, do you think
your hunger so

extraordinary? Pale

grubs knot together
in their sleep, you

will never really
part them. They know
what you are. Eyeless,

they keep watch
over your watch.