Thursday, July 20, 2017

Lying with Snails

In a soil thick with snails and rich as grease
I lie alone, untouched, unspoken, waiting for 
the spade.  The sound of the cutting of the earth:
grass ripping, worms splitting open, oozing 
into my surrounded bed.  This dirt, these snails
are my home now.  I am dead to the blue sky,
the white air.  My air is brown; my air
is grease; my companions are snails.

1 comment:

Adrian Neibauer, EdD said...

I wrote this poem using the first line from The Gladly Dead
by Charles Baudelaire translated by Jackson Matthews. I'm interested in the sounds of gardening from below the surface. This poem is my attempt at trying to understand a below-ground perspective.