Beside the rush and whine
of the hydro-electric turbines,
this is the house you built,
with foundations going too far down
into dirt that writhes with worms
[blind and large as lies],
through rock
that bleeds.

He sends me down to the cellar
to prove there's nothing there
to be afraid of.

But there is, and he knows it.
Down there is only Hell.

This passage narrowing
getting steeper, getting darker,
until all I can do
is lie flat,
eyes open onto blackness,
and let gravity's dull pull
drag me along.
Descend.

Go quietly.

The feel of being buried,
the coldness of stone sweating on skin,
the earth pressing in,
and the knowledge of what lies below:
I can't do it.
Please don't make me go into the cellar.
My knees and palms shred redly, wet,
from clawing my way back up.

His shadow is still in the doorway.

With casual cruelty and false platitudes,
the man in the suit
sends me back down again.



[Had a dream last night that's been infecting my day. Figured if I turned it into a poem it might stop bothering me.]

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