The tired frills of a day
are what remain
after I dig stones and worms
from this hole that opens wide
for signs and symbols.

Here is no Christian work,
only belief in the body's
instincts for pleasure
and hunger. The crazed sun
on its way down.

Lace like tempura
hangs from the lettuce.
These are my roots,
my own flesh showing through.
I'm thin and new

as a fledgling. I crave the flowers
and berries of myopia,
the emptiness of mu, the simplicity
of the lyric.
No more narrative devices.

With what can only be described
as a small joy
of sisterhood, right here
in the dirt, I plant
the word misanthropy.