Digging in the backyard for the first time

outside the bounds of garden, I feel

earth not so dry, not so grainy,

like one substance from the soaking.

In her chair Mother naps and no one watches.

What might I find, once I tear the hide

of grass away? I claw down, deep

as I can reach. Something squishes

in my hand. What if I hold a hidden organ

of the quivering world? Before I can run

inside, rain freezes to nails, sun stumbles

and falls. Mountains, like scowling faces,

turn toward me. From what vital

bladder or skull, I dread, without such

words, have I squeezed bile, brain,

or the unknown heart of the day?