Moss in a Tube
At the bolted folding table she and I
are chewing bark to fill up mugs
with spit. I name
this bit we do The Wound Of Our
Going-on In Peril, and seal
it with a beaker’s drop, and let it run
the whole of the day to come,
along with a brick
in the washing machine.
Lifeless by the degreaser is a pinkish rag
a can of Pam and instant coffee and
the dented pack a cigarette seems placed
half-out by design of the type of half-lit
dawn no soundtrack cares about
acknowledging. This mend
I felt tender for
the centrifuge hurls
apart, a product of my will.
The thing is a thing can grow from
anything,
can grow on anything
you can’t see is in it.