A Slug-Newt Day
A jelly-vinyl newt, a baby-face,
ponces down the dingle bent on mating.
These drifts of rain are etchings
sketched on pewter plates,
the maple leaves are hands,
thrown up, 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 twine and spill their eggs in gritty redds.
Fir tops poke the 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 science set its butt to tree-butt,
let the drizzle sluice its nose;
no romp, no gambol for this grizzled guy.
Too much of wet, of life!
The pen-black washes out to purple
spreads to gray, the page
goes pulp. Thought slops down
to fête the slug:
a poet’s sump to plump
the boogie booty of the world.