| Amber Nelson
What Grows There
Bone burying is monstrous &
wrong, just against the lilies.
White on white. Somewhere else is waking &
some coriander. Here, dry. Here, dust.
Before south & moving downwind to know.
Even though, even my dirty red shoes.
I watch the dirt move: one pile & then another.
I watch the seedlings disappear
under a mound of black silt
to sprout later & hide & not hide.