There are the non-rhymes of indentured servitude,

like our darker shadows served up as a litany of disgrace.

The dog keeps eating his shit and it reminds me that

sometimes what we think is tried and true is merely

dying to escape and find its way back, unseen, to soil.

We cramp up, our innards telling us a hard truth:

lap up this fish water and eat the stale tree bark much longer

and the ground won’t know the difference between you and your vomit.

Bitter weeds entwine roots with the vegetables, rape them for nutrients

and laugh all the way to the bowl where even the Ranch Dressing

can’t cancel the happy devils’ rotten trick.

So, I guess we either get used to the taste of bitter herbs in the salad,

the indiscriminate odor of our own feces among the riches of earth,

or we remain satisfied to let it all grow up together.

Maybe there’s an accidental rhyme of dirt and sky, earth and heaven?

Maybe rhyme isn’t the point?