Friday, June 6, 2014

fleshy fungus
Harvey S. Mozolak

their smell reached me
before I saw them
perhaps the mower cut a few
their gills gulping the air
at the edge of the woods
still beneath the trees
and along the roots
blending into the soil’s shading
small models of the atomic blast
leathery helmets of poison 
those noxious with sickness and death 
or gravy seasoning
small risings of the dirt
offering its oddly old taste
to those with a wariness 
and an eye to their history 
and what grows from the hunger
of the belly of earth                                                                                       

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