dirt

Fingertips and the point of contact

beneath her nails

where she stored the memory

of gardens she had muddled

and other uninvited visitors.

the sharpened pricks of hardness

and the cold sweat of Prison.

I love the dirt that’s spurned

by the cleanliness of order

adore delicious damage

done in rejection of ease,

give me people peeled in

pursuit of other truth

pilloried for chasing whispers.

I can only love what's broken:

from my own feet and all I've ever touched

to the stomping boots that visit in the night

and then

there are the sweet scents and colours

children's clothes and gardens of herbs

where anyone can rest