Earth

The soil is from Wall-Mart, brawny and rich as sweet tobacco. Driving home bag of dirt on the back seat, aromatic atoms of fertility pop unseen. I tip the bag wonder at the rich darkness yet there are mushrooms of light, galaxies of milk-spinning germs. It tumbles through my hands like mane of brown horse. A muscular earth that douses fingers in a laving of loam. I feel the child-lings, the pods, I know if I sprinkle rainwater, the wombs of impalpable virgins will fill with promiscuous prayers.