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In boredom I turn to horticulture
Finding a culture in cultivation
A product of plantation
Planting seeds as it were
Up to my knuckles and shins
Deeper and deeper in the dirt
A rotation of self like crops
As if the seasons were to change rapidly
More than they usually would
I’m skinned and re-skinned
With dirt and nothing more
The grit, the filth, the grime, the shit
I was gardening for so long
Caught up in the pansies and tulips
And forgot about the manure
Sweet magical manure
Whom without I would be dead
Or at least not feel alive
Or at least not grow
I roll in it like swine in the mud
Feel cleansed and covered
There’s dirt under my nails, soft, warm
Free of guilt, open and exposed
The ivy has grown now, vast and pulsing
Vibrant with life and dripping with soil
Like a potted plant under a moon’s wane
Or a poem I wrote, finally named

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