If it’s that we’re all dying
from the day we’re born, faster
or slower or unknown, are we
all then varying degrees of buried?
Dirt pushing to swallow us
year by layer by layer by year,
some laying back to let it pile
out of faith or sleep or fear,
others aching to know the whole
weight of our selves on our feet,
feel the dirt pulled off by gravity,
however briefly, to be any less
distant from the sky, the planets
as they spin and burn, the dark
Lizabeth’s poetry is forthcoming in Rattle, Popshot Magazine, and Lumina.