Blessings to this shovel,
all praises to the sheen of a stolen thing,
having no place but the soul's face,
seated in my one seat,
minuscule in comparison,
to the finality of this grand thing,
the dirt and me,
begging for the killing,
a sunlight that's finally singin
a target worth stingin
how can the hum and buzz ultimately be
a hymn to a thing that couldn't be,
what tears are you talking about,
they are what make me,
and so I call out, and you shout back,
a dearest is what this must be.