Monday, October 24, 2016


A blanket of clay dirt pulled up
over their chins, the seeds are
dozing in a dim, torpid reverie—
under a thin bed, no monsters;
just the rhizosphere’s toys and
cast offs and hand-me-downs.
But that’s enough: one or two
wriggling restless before sun-
up, tossing off muddy covers,
pajamas all askew, awakened
by light, by muffled birdsong.

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