Love Song for Mud

One time a girl fell in love with mud. She rubbed it
faceward, up the fat part of her belly and through the course
fuzz around her left nipple, lifted the tip of her finger

to the tip of her tongue and sucked tremendously. Mineral.

Maybe mud has a criminal past. Mud lasts and lasts
in the cracks behind her summer knees the way felons do
on the tollphone. On demand and utterly unreachable.
A love she would wear underwater, or inside out

should mud stick to her elbows; she wanted to share
a pH value, an acidity scale, a common taxonomy.
Biologically speaking, she envied willows and jacarandas.
She swallowed seeds spiritually hoping for roots.