I read and grow restless.
My poems do not follow anthologies,
they march out of potatoes that have been
hoed up and gathered in baskets,
dirt clinging to their tendrils,
chalky cores waiting for my olive oil.
I read and my ass loses feeling.
When I return to myself from out of a book,
the lack of color fills me again
for my body has not moved.
I love reading, but afterwards I cannot write.
I can only long for the plodding blooms of potato plants
and my confusion at aching fingers
when dirt encrusts the laces of my shoes.