i have been waiting to put down this shovel and sit on the muddy grass. grueling hands grumble not used to this kind of work that surely my friends’ fathers were natured to. instead i and a generation of youth escaped under green blinks of cursor and curious’er tappity tap tap. i can smell the autumn air, potpourri of tired leaves colored with some bruised and other some ripened apples tossed on tired bundles, piles now burning down a year’s worth of accumulated forgotten promises. crows sit on branches come to conduct me to work this hole i have dug for myself. soon enough you may envelop me and send me away, friends. sooner than enough for me but maybe not soon enough for you. i am done but only momentarily. i do not know how to stop. with every breath i exhale, with every shove then kick of blade i exhume. it does not stop. nor i. when is deep enough when depth cannot be measured? where here grows nothingness next there grows somethingness and on the sum it cradles my infancy. i shall find you but not here where you are not and when you are already there. first i will dig myself up. and then next you. but i will. never stop.