Wrapped tighter than a package
with brown and gold string;
sleep-walking, yawning,
it looks for a hole
to peek its head through,
find air,
and
ignite.

I had buried it again.
My callused hands wiped away
thick sweat off of
my brown forehead.
The shovel lay motionless,
asleep to my left,
snoring inaudibly.

But it found its way
outside anyway,
through my eyes.
I saw it in the mirror while
I shaved this morning,
showing its face;
its little red hands
shook my spine
like it was wet thread.

Six more weeks of
digging.