dig the dirt from under
my fingernails
and flick it back
to the gold, green earth
to be used in hearth
and heart
from the finish to the start.
FLAT SHOVELS
make way
for time travel
around the cut corners
of traditional tragedy,
where limbs and lymph nodes
kill us fast
or keep us alive slow.
EDGING SHOVELS
we all dance
to the edge of the itch,
moments shift,
and come back as black water,
drowning where I believe
anything it takes to climb
and keep making paths.