Dirt to dust
Till the field
hard with both
hands.
Bloody blisters
pop.
Spit.
Lick.
Run the tender raw patch along your pants -
the kind of rub where the fingers point
out
and the palm greases your denim with
the claret from the skin.
A little dirt smells good
in your nose.
When you grow up poor
dirt - wet dirt feels like home.
It feels alive.
You can taste how far it's
not supposed to come to
meet you.
You can sense that it
was in your blood once.
Irish, German, old, death
Scared.
To work that hand
to the dirt
mix with blood
but move fiercely
should result - in dust.
Dust that doesn't taste
like anything more
than failure.
