Dirt
By Alan Botsford Saitoh

What dirt is ever cheap to the dead

Who dwell there, who having paid so dear to lay

Their claim and stake their share on bootsoles

To come, those who will mulch the soil

By their far-fated strides proceeding from

Another time before a mud-conjuring rain

Wipes the slate clean, when Adam

For his bride’s sake rises up and

Molds out of clay his divine and divining Eve.