gravel under my toes and the ache
or road-burned soles
lilies of the valley are the picture
of any purity
I have ever seen
but I've been a nocturnal blossom
whose weakness
is wanting a pretty reflection
of overwhelming sun
and the truth is mud is a second
skin like lovéd dirt
caked into my own blemished flesh
rough hands made busy
I'm a distraction from my own quiet lips
bare feet in the garden
grass in my hair
I wanted grain because sustenance
always meant something more
than dirt-born ideal
but instead I've planted pretty things and ran
to the center of the road
where I'm making my sunburned stand
as cars rush angrily by
I'm not asking which way home
all I want to know is how long
and how far I have to be
before I can finally build something
only for me