I lie more still than a corpse, deep down,
swaddled in peat, its face a tannin mask
shrunken to expose teeth. Eyes lost and staring.
A nose that flares for an anaerobic balm.
If my neck were noosed I could not be more still,
if my sacrifice had been made, my hands curled.
If I lay for two thousand years in this soft bed
pressed upon by peat above, pressed by peat below,
with all torment dead and passed away,
I could not be more still and calm.
I could not matter less. The bog bottoms
are a place of calm. A place of sleep.