There are things that lie in the bottom
of a six-foot deep holes
a vessel interred in a silk-lined box,
carefully selected clothes and a good
pair of shoes. Things, only. Things that lose
all value when the first piece of dirt falls.
There are things never found in the bottom
of a six-foot deep hole:
the sound of your voice does not echo
in that void, or the memories of places
where we always laugh and dream, or the touch
or your hand over time and distance.
Love lies buried in many places, but not
at the bottom of a six-foot deep hole.