A Slug-Newt Day
He sits him down to write the winter:
A jelly-vinyl newt, a baby-face,
ponces down the dingle bent on mating.
Lazy drifts of rain are etchings
scratched on pewter plates,
the maple leaves are hands,
thrown round, thrown down,
caressing earth against the rain,
lascivious and clingy,
happy to have done with dancing.
How the riffles waltz and chitter!
Salmon spurt their milt
and spill their eggs in gritty redds.
Fir tops poke at flabby clouds.
The leaves of hazel wishy-wash to yellow,
emerald mosses felt and gob,
licorice fern unfurls like lizard tongue,
puffy, pirouetting lichen
plumps from skyward.
Slugs the size of nether members
cruise the humus, ochre barges,
silver ribands streaming.
O, detritus! O, alluvium
of plenitude, of glut, this rut
of metaphor and meaning,
of simile and saraband and sideslipped symbol—
Let poet-science set its butt to tree-butt,
let the drizzle sluice its nose;
no romp, no gambol for this grizzled guy,
this scriber. Too much of wet, of life!
The pen-black washes out to purple
spreads to gray, the page
goes pulp. Mannered thought slops down
to fête the slug:
a poet’s sump to plump
the boogie booty of his world.