The red spinner

The garden swealters.
I hear the cerated edges
of tomato leaves sawing
the air itches,
my skin blisters with sweat,
feet suffocating in rubber boots.
Insects descend from the sun
and snapzzzz around my shins.
The vines on the wall steal more space
underground,
the vines steal more oxygen.

I reach for the tap,
the hose choaking its way along brick patio
and underground.
I grip the red spinner, now
the insects cover my knees
snapping and scratching.
I turn on the water, like turning on the world:
hear the metal-twisting-fooshroosh
in the tap
and the hose gets fat, convulses, underground
the worms corkscrew to the surface
pink tongues
swirling out of the muck,
full and feeling.

I start to sink down,
the insects drown clinging to the hive.
Mud oozes into my nostrils, choaks my throat
and gurgles its way into my lungs.
My chest burns, fire-hot,
an ember in the black garden swamp.
I am fossil fuel.
I suffocate from oxygen
and breathe the earth.




*please forgive spelling mistakes, I have become spellcheck dependent -d