The man has learned perhaps the wrong lesson, lying
prostrate among the perished grape vines, segmented
earthworms, and swelling stalks of bloody hibiscus.
He prays to the potatoes buried in the deep earth,
the eyes of which have seen the secrets he yearns for,
already considering the exact vintage
of cabernet he should use to perfect the stew
and whether the carrots will betray confidence.
He is alone. Blessedly alone. Blastedly lonely
as his starved hands perform archaeology,
ignorant that the endemic of knowing
was the rot inherent in Eden’s garden.
He believes there is great mystery in the damp soil,
though the explanation—precipitation—is straightforward.