​are already more buried than the dead.
Corms of gladioli resting in our hearts,
mums and sandalwood rooting through our veins,
the adventures of our skin covered in adventitious mint.

Do we really need to smell fresh at all times?
We, who sleep among the roots

can only dream of water and darkness
and the soft tap of a dry leaf whirling down
to settle on our heads.

Water seeps through us, we retain only its memories.
We have no space to kneel, so we have no gods—only monks
in samadhi, and cicadas who take a really long time
to fuck once and die.

We are a quiet bunch, happy underneath the humdrum of humus.
We talk of genitals here--
at times, we don’t talk of anything else at all.
We who sleep among the roots

crave salt in our mouths, all over our bodies,
in every open wound
and scar tissue running around on a Mobius path.

We don’t settle for time—we want, and want, and want.
Those aboveground can never understand.
We would rather be at home in soil
than live in exile among the flowers.