At certain times in winter
I look up at the evening sky
To see the light pour down uncontrollably
Into my body, a waste pipe
The light flows through me, a laxative
Shunting light into brute matter
Through my arms my legs
My toes curl into the cold wet earth
So intimate with the dank
Decomposing bodies of plants and insects
Of the rich brown soil
And who is to say that
it is not an orifice into some other world?