Monday, May 30, 2011


Scraping away their dirt, you find--
The time-intoxicated dirt,
Rich in polysyllabic orts
And nutrients, like red roe deer
And tallow chandlers--roots and bones.
We have those here. Around a shrew's
Skull you can see the withy threads
Of something growing somewhere else.
Our soil is fed by little songs
Of composition: Here lies one
Whose name was never writ at all,
Genius and species, gone to seed.


James Goodwin said...

I like this. : )

karensomethingorother said...

stories left in the dirt, waiting to be unearthed?