12.
Even stoned, on water would be grim,
boarding cruiseships to the southern seas,
to fungal states. I would like to buy this
mushroom, not this bell. Were I to say
toadstool, the Dutch would get it, but here
the natives make us specify, pears or other.
But you went on, said the mantle
made me the asshole. Filaments
leaning, probing the charts beyond,
I was left dangling after one conversation
I felt fed by some connection, two bulbs
dim above a billion sleepwalkers.
But her chapped lips or whatever
rots are always before you, so pretty.
Man made of ice, the color of milk
where people go once, you bathed
my house in your knowledge of
gardening and left a bag of stolen
buffet bananas in a mound of
soot. It was beautiful, but then I
had to go and find a profession.
