Mossy conquest of pavement and telephone poles.
That which is not, eventually may become
hoof deep in it, cow-like.
The ocean turning means a storm offshore. Moving onshore.
Color by magnitude, by so much of it
here in this place.
Not the sky, flower, berry, bud, and those sort.
Not the cow itself or the stones.
Comb the reeds and part them. They’ll brush together in the wind,
this season or next.
Don’t believe a word of this unless you want to.
Believe the sight of it; how voluptuously words fail.
Hair of the earth. Straighten, curl. Flatten, spring.
Never out of twist for the buttonholes of its finery.
Given its way, a choker.
At home underground
(the Daphnes among us, the Persephones)
half in, half out.
Fulfillment is scythed at the end of every season.
Programmed to flaunt it. Bloodier than you think.
Rose; apple; fuchsia.
Published in Pool.