Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Sonnet #26

We speak of death in the bones of a man

But I think of death as a fungal thing
I know my age in my joints in the morning
I feel it in my back, the rot and ruin
The soil of me feels death bloom
Tendril pathways snaking mycorrhizal
Stretch and drink water, read the Bible
In the crevices of bones the creaking swoon

Lie down in the field and look to the cloud
My hair will stretch and fall into the earth
I carry the colony, I am their shroud
They are my body I carry them forth
And when they are hungry they crowd
Into my gaps to transform my rebirth

Post a Comment