I.

I need to get clean.
I need to hear
the comforting "splut!"
of mud against my skin,
the thuds and crunches
of dirt and rocks beneath me.

I must crush myself into moss
and tree bark and let leaves
nestle themselves in my hair

I need to feel
the arms of empty acreage
twining around me.

I will taste the soggy air
and smell its rich colors.

I will wash myself in earth
and let its creamy coolness
suck against my toes.


II.

Wet dirt is my future and history,
I know its power of invention:
unstoppable.

One day God played in it
and wound up making me.

I've been groping
like a beggar in the darkness,
but this mud upon my eyelids
will unblind me.