I won’t drag the pickaxe any farther.
I’ve left the gear for you
at the bottom of the shaft.
The lights are ready. The seam
is sunken in the rock, waiting
for you to sing it out into your pail.
I am not of the dark and huddle
as you are. I am not meant to stoop
in the service of the gleaming things.
My lips need salt and air. My eyes
are made for more than the djinn
you conjure out of the black dust.
You are geared for swing and hack
for all the movement of a scythe
made of muscle. I will wait for you
above ground as you force yourself
upon all the surfaces of the earth.
Subdue it lest it subdue you.
Until at last it does.