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
