A large wound, open and fresh,
Dappled by its own spittle,
Reminds me of the rich
Imported soil of a garden.
Moist and funky,
A steam bath awaits
When ground opens.
Rivulets of murky water
Collect at the bottom
Of each scoop;
Warm loam appears to pulse
With eyeless worms
That free with each dig --
Veiny, watery.
Open wounds give under fingers,
Dirty nails -- fresh soil too --
Marrow laden bones
Like thick thirsty tree roots
Stop scalpels from sinking
Straight through to China.
