Subsoil

The toast is burnt at the edges.

I pick at the crust

and see the black crescents

hiding under my nails.

Four hours of pulling the ivy,

the vines thick as cables

choking the garage.

My knuckles are raw,

stained with the damp rot of the yard.

The brush wouldn't touch it.

It’s a deeper kind of dark,

the kind you get when you try

to dig a hole big enough

to bury the sound of a voice.