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Toadstools

Born of damp and demise,
little prodigies haunt the shadows,
like conversations we live
to forget. Wild mushrooms
lift their spongy overnight ears,
and muscle aside the fallen
eye-shine of chestnuts. Among us,
the old argument crops up,
and both parties hunker down
in the woods. This is where
we get the verb mushroom:
we, who launch our ripostes, seeding
the air beyond what it can hold.
What if we can’t find the truth?
The man losing his faith in speech
utters blurred shapes, like those caps
and stems, ghostly with foxfire,

A conjecture leading to a Psalm

So you doubt the whereabouts of God,
a quark, everywhere yet nowhere at once.
So the hell what? Doubt you the wind,
doubt sandstone erosion and trilobite carapace.
Let faith in dawn weather slow as feldspar.  
The sperm whale’s lungs collapse a thousandfold
in unfathomable depths, yet bear it, unyielding.
You who preach against miracles, go doubt
the arctic tern asleep on the wing.
Doubt that a father will leave untouched
constellations of frost inside his windshield,
the breath of his child frozen overnight.

Vine maple (III)

(Acer circinatum)
        
Gray leaves, ghost leaves
    buried under
        the winter snowpack.

Now, in spring, they lay
    their desiccated hands
        atop the ladders

of Oregon grape,
    hoping to climb
        out of the grave.

            —Ross Lake National Recreation Area

What if

On the back of the MBTA bus
An ad for Devil Dogs complete
With photos of “vanilla-flavored
Crème sandwiched between two
Fun-shaped Devil’s Food cakes”
Exclaims “Yes please!” urging us
To “listen to our cravings” which is
To say consume whatever we imagine
Might fill the hungry ghost of fear
That dwells in each of us living
In this land of plenty where more is
Never quite enough: but what if
Craving became longing for something
Of another order, and what if we instead
Said “Yes” to prisoners, lepers, refugees,

Horizons

to the sparrows in the terminal at Mitchell Field, Milwaukee

all your life you have to travel somewhere
crumb to crumb
floor to soffit, bubbler to piano,
the spread of atrium
and your still point an immense sanctum
that holds the pattern of your flight

and if you knew how wide
        was the offering of your sky,
            how far would you fly?