A glut of liquid fertilizer gradually sizzles,
soaks through the thin skin of my hands
as I care for my kingdom. Red cuticles, subtly 
sick, so nitrogen-rich. I water the soaked garden
in the drizzle of rain, ammonia-fog, naturally forget
my old place in the rhythm of living and doing.
Please let me, zombied, tend to something, however
unhelpful or harmful, just to feel near to the world.
Overdose it on the flood of love that my dead roots
cannot absorb. This joy is artificial, I won’t take any more
white pellet meals. It’s not what I’m here for. I’m destined
to satiate the earthworms, sink back into cycle, happy to be
useful and worthy. After all, these storms left me so dirty.