The soil I now pick br br contains fragments of the dead. br br They once saddened and happied themselves here br br turning to the sun and moon, quite puzzled br br then taking things as they came, br br for granted. This is hard brown laterite br br that I turn, br br to plant a few bright periwinkles br br stolen from the mound of one long obscure, br br dead. They should grow well br br here. So I turn out br br the millipedes curling up br br ashamed of the sudden expose br br into dark ring stones of sapphire and topaz. br br Pinned to sudden light they have all coiled up br br in abject surrender. These things we bury back br br with pushed up soil, crushing strange roots br br going everywhere like soft nerve fibers, br br sending messages of thirst to strange br br destinations. Each scoop of mud br br brings more life to light br br lost like death underground br br doing odd jobs, ordained like saints, salient br br in dark recess drawing salary in kind. br br Mud-work is a kind of work ship. br br A silent thanksgiving for a home, called earth.