The Hole

Once, there was a man
who dug a hole in his
backyard, with his hands,
with a plan, a tunnel to
nirvana. Every day

his fingers bled like
sacred gloves, his eyes
adjusting to the darkness.
What did he know of night
and what it might be hiding?

Maybe he forgot the light
his blindness like the mole.
And without sight is courage
more like inner shine collecting
what it feels or holds?

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