old and crusted with dirt
skin some shade of olive so dark
I am afraid my spade will strike you
blending with earth as you do
even when you jump away
you are slow—
warts on your back—
you sluggish from the last
of winter’s cold blowing
nothing is blooming
the snowdrops
droop green stalks edged with lost life
it is the late lip of winter
and you have shown up like this
spittle foaming in algae as you
sing your horny song while my
argument with spring waits
for brisk light, maybe a little rain
