The Perigee of Asparagus

betwixt between dawn’s shattered shin
and the honey-bake of midday,
i walk through the dirt rows,
flanked with breathing emerald.
the air was a stinking flower
my clothes a poison
my bootheels a tumbling clumsy.
tarnished brass booms from the ground,
a hundred prison breaks
green under the steam of the sun
the soil
the soil,
toucas of the earth,
ripe with the worm and the fallen petal,
holding snotty spears of asparagus
within it’s alkaline skin,
waltzes green waiting for the drop of the digger’s spade.
asparagus my jewel
asparagus my map
asparagus my saxophone
there will be no milquetoast half-tries,
no haypenny excavations,
no cover versions by the dead buried there,
no atlas choking on fingernails.
there will be a fervent gathering of sharp bouquets
there will be cutting
and a nosh of the snot clots.
there will be vegetable fornication
and adultery soaked in brine.
there will be no yesterday and no tomorrow,
only a now
heavy with dirty fingernails and smelly piss.
asparagus my splint
asparagus my hatch
asparagus my earthen fever