2mud

1.

the grit scums up near ridges where

2.

i found a false painted nail in the refuse before clearing where

my nail beds extrude new tough:

we laid cardboard, leaf mold, rocks

my hands have become dirt

and plants dug up from another yard

ified, do i even have fingerprints

where the oil tank will soon rise

left?

and whinny like a horse

now the earth is my fingerprint

by the end of the afternoon, a new garden bed

3.

by the end of the day,

i don’t have a name anymore

bones worn smooth

by lift and tuck

the dirt comes out the truck

and i am one with muck

back with earth, i feel home

ly, reverent, thick:

all the pressing questions clunk

into evaporated rain mist

as the clouds become our

beloved watering can, can

i lay down in the garden bed,

fold over, flower and earth,

and tuck

in?