The measure of infinity

How deep is it, do you think the well
how far down to the inky black of the water
And “well” – why do they call it that?
A creeping-under, seeping, bulking out
the comfort of sleep, the quiet of night
forehead, nose, mouth and chin
where it comes together – the densest in-between
Where does it go, do you think the cold black
Like veins, like rivers gathers serpentine
a tributary to time under soils soaked thick
with the dust of decay, the tender life of soldiers
washed into the loam, the language of fathers and grandfathers
mothers and great-aunts. Deep, deep
they point the way to the well on which one day you will sit
staring like Narcissus at the beauty,
the nothing down, your gaping throat

you worked hard through stone to root
trunking out and boughing over
pushing stem and vein by vein
later leaves will come
or maybe bruises like blossoms
thking you've earned them
flogging yourself foaming with sap
but imagine the effort
of pushing stem, vein by vein
cells filled with sunlight and salt
branch by bough, and up the trunk
the numb and beautiful reply, dripping
the tears were in the branches all along
the leaves were in the branches all along
you did not earn them
all along far away, long ago enough