"russula" poems
Keep in mind that when Russula,
humble, dewy and smelling of musk and rain,
Is brushed off by some unknowing passerby
Or grows thirsty in the sunlight,
It still leaves a silky fingerprint in the soil.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
You are temperate
kisses on frost-chilled windows.
The fragrant evergreen and pine,
the delicate rasping of wine
against velvet throats. You are thicket-
carpeted tongue where settled
crumbs of honey-lathered toast,
burnt, crisp, crumbly, spongy,
unlike your walls. The changing of
locks, the changing of keys might
not be a good way to spend time;
they’re blind to sines, your shimmering
solar attic-roof, your gauntlet garden,
your haunted keep. You are beautiful in ways
most men can’t discern, be careful
who you let in, and in turn,
be careful who you let
return.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC