This is the farm, this continuation of underground.
How the soil hardens my skin.
The greenery, saved from tedium
by perennial bloom, suspends in waterless air
where chamomile flowers wilt too quickly
crumbling in hands like a sugar cube—
opaque but clear, I am pale and parallel
to a steady hum that tangles me
weaving through fingers and toes.
I crush fruit already rotting,
already found by crows, by this incessant heat
bubbling Black Krim insides;
heat pressing its foot on my back and knees
before it retreats, is taken,
leaving bones near unruly tomatoes
so we won’t ferment alone.
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