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A Hole

I know everything about digging a hole and then the sides begin to dribble back down into its perfect emptiness - not from the dark clay carved by the tip of my shovel but above that, small stones dropping from exposed roots, or higher still, tiny sharp ones, pouring from a loosened pocket of shale like a sudden remembrance, the lip crumbling under my boot as the dirt dries, dirt that sifts down the sides as I scoop it with my hands, dirt as large as a boulder but feathery, with no edges, something I was going to say.