Instruments of Candle

I bring to table a pebble
I bring to the table a buckle

Rounded pebble syllable of  water tongue
grand design of floods and trickles

Busted buckle moss encrusted
sleep walking to the forest edge

Sleep walking to the pond
where Spanish moss hang  faces

In womb, I was  pebble,
I heard sad mansion moaning

She stood last night, a stoic wife
under good  husband's avalanches

But know you now, insulter,
her lover's sleeves are green.

His fingers lattice her breast;
his kisses are insistent beetles.

She is  longer sure Resurrection is what she reckoned
if Reincarnation is a curse like a candle that burns and wanes.

Unsure if life indeed is candle, if suffering indeed is wax,
may the instruments of the device not disappear;

the flame which tolls the bell in the candle's belfry;
the wick which is the buried worm bound to burn.

Would you have had it some other way
that she buried you between her legs

And now disinters you, l
liken then  the tongue to a shovel,

the digging done, the shovel is oiled anew.
You, the living should be the diggers

and for the dying, please dig at least 6 feet.