Blind

I’m irritated.
I butcher a radish,
cut my finger.
Wanting blood,
I get mine.
Take the trowel—
go outside.
By their tops
you can count the potatoes
from here.
The harvest may be fair.
When you come to me at night
I snore—
_ _drive you
_ _to the other room.
I shove my blunt trowel
down in the ground,
_ _root up a potato.
Inside
I hear a worm
taking hold.