Poems of the day


Deborah Warren

MoleEarth is his occupation, and the moleworks the turf in his native breaststroke, swimminghallways into the sod—a geonautsupreme, and connoisseur of worms; I’ve heard himbreaking roots an inch beneath my soleand seen how the subterranean specialistcarves out for himself a single, simple role.I envy the expertise he brings to bearon dirt, the narrow office he was given;as for me, my habitat is thought,where I grope and sweat and scrabble out a livingforced to prove—up here in a windy lairas invisible as the mole’s—that there existsan animal who can dig a hole in air.

I, viThis castle hath a pleasant seat; the airNimbly and sweetly recommends itselfUnto our gentle senses.Duncan and Banquo, trotting in,halt to admire the castle’s site,the tender air where nesting martinsride the dusk before alightingfive stories up under the battlements.Hautboys, torches, barking, shoutingherald the entry of the king;the pock-jawed groom comes grinning out;such amenities, and makingsuch a good impression on the senses:summer, nestlings—and the croaking ravenalready fledged out in the spreading dark:Drop the curtain; leave them there—believing,witless, and eternally arrivingamong the pretty deer in the castle park.
from the book CONNOISSEURS OF WORMS / Paul Dry Books
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