It Grows Such Sweet Things Out of Such Turns

It is that calm.
It’s not that slow.
It goes in depth,
Small step by step.

That’s how it lands
On what seems pure
And sweet to you
From what was rot,

Sick, worms, meat—dirt,
Rich black food, dirt.
There was no rot.
There is no pure.

There is a stage,
A depth at which
Earth’s good to eat—
Worm’s depth or yours.