Pink Afternoon

Let us workshop this poem about a gravedigger's whispers of introspection after finishing a job.

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Pink Afternoon 

Inside a hole, the digger could not shake
feeling he stood at the bottom of things.
He could dig deeper, yes—but just to more
earth. “This,” he spins inchmeal only then
to pat the wall in a thud like a dog’s chest

(an electrobell tune from the dead church
muffled), “this is what asks, what answers.
We are of this so we may love.” And yet
had the man not been a digger, bottom
might have been on surfaces or in skies.

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This poem is unpublished

Photo: wallpaperboat.com/pink-cloud-wallpapers