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The Auspices
IV Ex Dīrīs
His son is a constellation of seeds below us,
tiny hands, the hasp warming tulip bulbs,
urging each bloodshot-bright gash to surface.
He shows me where to press, as though dirt
knows inches, as if rain swells here like a font,
and there, not at all. I know better: I feel
the earth’s shifting where he bends: the grave’s
tug is a pitiless kiss, a consumption. I have arrived,
a shining, uncustomed god, to lean down in mercy. 