If you dig it

(death of a hipster, for Scott)

If you dig, it might be a grave, a ditch, a row for planting, an intractable problem.

If you dig, you might really like it and snap your fingers or light a match, and the faces brought into the match light might have hollow eyes and young lips and an indifferent approval.

If you dig it, you might dig deeper than you meant to, and the digging might
grab you by the ankles and your skinny black pants and drag you into that cool
cat tomb, your plain white face drawn away too soon to have a single line.

And they will snap their fingers and light their matches and drop their single roses each one of them onto your grave or into the ditch where the water is running high and full of seeds, and who knows what might grow from that planting, who knows. A plain pale face, some sugar snap peas, a rose bush, a morning glory, rising from the dirt, the water, the dirty fingernails, the faces growing lines in your absence.


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