In the garden you think there are no disgusting things.
These worms squiggling into the mud below
A spider lives to eat the other bugs.
The other bugs look handsome next to the petals
and bark, dark legs like eyelashes.
The mind you wear into the garden
possesses wisdom not your own.
Shit is great flower food.
The desiccated bird corpse,
tiny cracked cage of bones
in a handful of flung feathers,
the earth will take it.