Sunday, February 20, 2011

nouvelles











mythos

from highschool




humus;
a grasping of leaves, a push
of wrists into mulch,
the petals revealed under a rotting log,
crumbling to peat and heady rubber mushrooms; their white caps turned up
we're shown these treasures, unabashed
at turning bugs out of their homes

and one day
we find a slime mould, a yellow vein
in the sharply clear stream, outside my window and in bed
it tells me that spring has arrived