Garden

Outside in the dug soil
grubs curl, sickly
and new.

Moisture, grit and rot
turn the iron wheel, the slow
forgetting of the world.

Succulence and feculence
kiss, suck, penetrate
the other

of the other.
Waving eyeball,
fittingly

green on a green blade,
sees what, a blur
of turning worms, the monolith

of the foot undoing sun, sound
and chewing.
The voices of the dead

are smells. A hospital
of stinking geraniums
nods its blooming head.

Why wet rot?
Let it broil into dust.
Radishes swell

into globes,
scarlet, crisp
in the compact black.

Copyright © 2004 Theodore Worozbyt All rights reserved
from Smartish Pace
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission