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.