|Oct/Nov 2004 • Poetry • Special Feature|
Rhubarb leaves repel
rampant nettles' claim on living space.
Below those broad, photo-chemical factory plates,
black earth, still damp, musty, cool to cheek,
while the ear strains across
Beetle-scuttle down crevasse,
periodic slither of the worm which bars its path,
interminable as a Sante Fe freight.
Bacteria's babel-babble as they munch detritus,
pool their excretions. Roots drive down,
subsonic micro-thunder from the race to food.
Prone body aches
for underworld's long, slow,