Planting

Obsessed this whole winter
with looking 
like I know what I’m doing,
I’ve clung to a persona.
Today
I whip off the mask,
break the spell,
and decide to plant.

In my dirty hand,
a clump of earth
full of pale bulbs.
Black under my fingernails,
shit-brown all over my knees
and shirt.  A streak of filth
on one cheekbone.

Do I look like
I know what I’m doing?
At last, it doesn’t matter.
Like any laborer,
any artist, 
any of us really,
I just lay my ghostly little balls
in that fresh grave
and hope for the best.