It appeared overnight, beyond the thick of woods.
A hole, long, narrow, like a grin, stretched a metre
through the dirt. I fed it sticks, rocks, bigger rocks,
to no response of sound. I tied a torch to string,
fished for understanding, lowered the slow spin of light
to brighten only stone, moss, a millipede,
concluding this to be just a mouth, toothless, syllable-ridden
with echoes of my chants and songs from childhood.
You were intrusive, persistent, throbbing my frontal lobe;
certain, persuasive, that I wanted to chance the depth,
tempt the darkness, have the hole swallow me
in my entirety and leave this land, the things I knew,
the people I loved. It would be easy, without valediction.
I could simply plunge, prepared: knees bent for a landing,
breath held for a possible underground lake,
and to be otherwise content with an eternal falling.