So, here's that poem about compost I started last week. I'm not sure if I like it yet.

A Friendly Warning

Benign neglect, they call it. Certainly
it seems benign: eggshells and coffee grounds
go in, peach pits and carrot tips, a rose,
wilted, the parings of a thousand nights,

to stew and simmer, turn and ripen, change --
alchemy, strangeness. Lavished with beetles,
laced with curling grubs (parenthetical)
and shot with worms, the pile considers you

(your shovel, too) and heats to think of your
tibia and fibula, radius
and ulna pressed in clay, your bones beneath
those loaves fluoresced with moldy-seafoam stars.

When you dig again, beware. It can turn
under your spade much faster than you think.