Wading in the blackening field the bending, brittle stems threatening crackle and graze needle and thread june-grass and pasture sage
Mnemosyne waits there in her sodden robes near the depression where the farmhouse once stood still, as I meet her there at the pitβs dreadful edge
and then they come, the torrent of beasts, spilling long-limbed from her arms in shameful profusion at their ******* each the snarling lick of a wound and all become a rapid, swollen crowd, yelping and squalling, given hungrily to some grim and certain task They nip at my ankles, my fingers, my small florid lip
And I remember how, month after month the heart-shaped leaves of the split-leaf philodendrons unraveled all asunder; glossy and enormous but eroded and porous before they were ever new, yet I was sure the cleavage must serve some pure purpose, because thats the way they all grew
First in the sun-room of the woman who grafted them from the mother stalk and then sold them on craigslist they came then to the concrete apartment with its twelve-foot ceilings where the fan hushes them, now, so they quite slightly rustle; Itβs breath must still be blowing on down through the little holes