The cause is not whether you pick
clumps of poison mushrooms under a new
moon or cast bread crumbs in a paper sack
on the waters. You lie on your back
as dry grasses rustle their profound
tristesse. There is nothing you haven’t
touched. Your mouth rushes through
the motions, making a meal of remnants.
Faithful, the pulse keeps feverish time.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
