Garden Crimes

Here I am.
Here am I.
I hear A.M.:
the fizzle-crack
of sunlight bursting
seeds in the soil
of these sleep-thick eyes.
I am here.
I am here.
Here, ami,
Tend my roots with your trowel-blade.
but nick no worms–
they are innocent.
Ah, me, here
is the gavel-truth:
these flagstones are a penance.
The moss on my lips the bailiff.
I am here-
by sentenced, juried by worms
and judged by blossoms
Bursting from my flesh.