I want to stick my fingers in the dirt
as deep as they'll go, drive my knucklebones
through earthworm paths until hard pack and stones
stop me. I want to smear mud on my shirt
and tear it, turn my nails to crescent moons
gritty and black; inhale the rotting leaves
and humus; shuffle out of dirty sleeves
and ring my eyes with earth, like a raccoon's.
I want to be a savage of the soil,
to roll in compost, return to the ground
a lover and supplicant--worship loam
and dance until, exhausted from the toil,
I topple like a tree. Only the sound
of rain will find me there, safe at last, home.
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