mmmdclxxxiv

can’t decanter?

this phase, driest in
august, could yet
finish this disaster,

who’s holding on
for dear life, crying
uncle at the doorstep

of the apothecary.
but yet the sapless
seedling finds it way 

beneath the chalky surf

ace of earth’s dusty crust,

sinking through what

goes for soil in these
here parts, desiccated
as a microwaved tarantula

(but only so to speak, such
bleak words said only for the
most imaginative ruminant,

of course), wiggle-sperms its
tiny self as if a chunk of lead
dropped down into a cask of

talcum, til this giddy-sober
little whisker’s dunked its
delirious digger-nut of a

head into the one miniscule
sticky drop of desert yet to
cling but to an urchin’s

smidge of moisture,
et voilà, kaboom,
the sapless sapling

bursts forth,
through a
hungry

earth,
it would
appear at

first,
but drunk
and sluggishly,

eventually
maturing, as
with time one

might, buoyed
by its strategic
yet perpetual growth,

enamored by its sheer
existence, its resistance
to logic, as it were, 

suggesting that its mere
living be, miraculous
as it in verity is, but

the very (life-

living) template
of deliberate.