doozer

Devotion I should dig. I do. But how I
dread dreaming, departing as it does
from the dregs of the day. I digress. Or
I demur (directing myself to wall). Door-
ways are dreamy, no? Docents. I have
developed a disposition. Drawn to
drawings of dancers, the dangers of
darkness, I decide dharma is not duty.
Data does not drive me. Dynamite does.
I divine what is divine without deriving
design. I am a doubter who has willed
herself to dare. Delve. I dig. Ditches and
wells. I do this all day. I do this well. Each
depthcharge delightful as a doe dappled
by dew. A damp doe at dawn, dotted and
doting, before her daughter darts suddenly
away as doe is done–as doe dies and is
dragged into the middle distance. This
God does. Beyond all adoration there is
dismay, the undoing of May. The dis-
possessed despise what a god deigns
to destroy yet still demands amidst
debris: a tendering. I dig and dig and
never discover my demons, only pan-
demonium. Dented bowls, buried dolls
and dormant beetles–droll and devious
–ready to devour what is dearest, to de-
compose this diorama, to end the un
endurable, disperse dust. We drudges
we drones we diggers–it is not doom
we idolize. Doom, we decipher.