29 May 2010


Microphyll 5/29

It curls, bobs and darkens, it shakes off

eat slow weeping ferns in balsamic
We discuss sex, how it wraps us around it
convinces that it burns unless we water
A tight rope of hair barbing on ankles

It unwinds, pressing the leaves from its door
and passes into sunlight

On the end of the fork it drips, lazily unwinding
as if the sun were under the table
It knows which direction it's going
small black spores forming on the leaf buds

Knows how to let go

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