Geomancy
Every time we touched the earth,
each shovelful was supposed to mean
something: the first, difficulty;
the second, more. The earth yielded
answers of the overturned cup, the tail
of the dragon, the signs of disruption
and loss. The early November chill
only eased us further together: nights
spent laughing at the bizarre vocabulary
of dreams and respooling the memories
that featured you, as no more would.
But here in this pocketed green space
on the northwest edge of everything,
we touched the ground to fill the hole
because in this movement and shoveling
we were told some solace might come
forth, some kind of lightness or grace,
something like your laugh. Your face.
