Taphophobia

Down in dirt under dirt with silk and the dirt
and the pillow dressed and the air slips. And
the legs stiffen and pin. Not a time for a
mouth, but still gaped open, muffled up,
among the breath and its
enclosure.
not close enough to the worm, the beetle,
scented soil to a quick lung. but encased.
The dung and rat, would better company, cold
mud, faster. But the hell of rationed
gasp. o, enough

to wake sudden. and suffocate. Enough wait to startle a night
at the throat, a heavy hang
under the hangar of earth, and what done to deserve the dense plates of monoxide covering
lips and ringing
women who become less maiden, and men less
gentle
against the roof’s catch. the claw hysteric, as pant and wail, still warm
but crushed ton below heaped mud on collapsed chest. If only that.

or air.
What panic makes. when forced to flail and break.