Out of old earth that the worms ate,
the grim garden began to grow.
Peas, like dull dragons, unwound and dipped
rough leaves that the land had licked,

lulled by a lingering dust of crumbs
left by the tongue of the turned-up
underground earth.  Over the dirt,
beans bent their bowed figureheads,

Bent so heavy, held so hard,
That it filled them with force to face furrows
through the wind.  They’ll walk waves.

First collected in Eve (Story Line Press, 1997, Reprinted by Carnegie Mellon University Press Contemporary Classics Poetry Series, 2011).