
What’s day to a miner?
Shovels and picks.
Ten fathoms deep
the mind plays tricks.
Like: I’m lying in bed
with the sun flooding in.
I’m married
to a bright young thing
in a yellow dress.
She sings to me.
I pull her close.
My hands are clean.
My hands aren’t clean.
We dream the day
then rise at dusk
to claim our pay
with coated hands.
Example two:
above the cart,
a chink of blue
waving
like a tiny flame
that somehow knows me,
calls my name
and guides us
to a richer seam.
Shovel, pick,
shovel, pick,
the sun’s a ghost,
the light’s a trick –
yet who’s to say
the light’s not true?
The mind does
what it has to do
to save itself
from total dark.
And thought’s a spark.