Cleave

The mud is cold enough to ache.

I’m digging for a pipe that went to sleep

under the yard, where the worms are thick.

I grabbed the slab to shove it back in place,

but the edge found the gap in the palm.

The canvas split.

The skin went white before it started leaking.

That slate is the color of a thigh

after a fall—dark, wet, and heavy,

shining in the porch light like meat.