Sow You Shall

 

I planted carrots; jawbones grew,

fitted with teeth, hinged as if fresh.

I planted onions. Inching up,

electric cord. I cut the plugs

off and saved them in a dark drawer

till fall. Meanwhile the copper wire

exfoliates. I dug a hole,

hoping to find a broken pot

breded and lacquered, lost and found

and lost again, the art of house-

hold detriment. But what I turned

up on the sharp point of my spade—

just anecdote and parsley flakes

and cumin-scented calendars

and rubber bands. I turned them down

to fertilize. The coming storm

will make my bed a slough of mud

and battered silt. These are the grounds

I use to justify my lines—

chile and radish and runner bean.