THE WEAVE:

Pluto wonders under

the Sun’s spotlight, as he

passes overhead, unseen

from the Underworld…

"What is sacred?
What am I creating
Here, in the Poem

Fields of my life?
I have planted Words
like seeds, and bombs:

A root system, enriched
by the Dark nuclear
Soils of What Hurts,

and littered with the Bright
Sprigs of Love.  You are
a mushroom, that never

dies, growing
from the manure pile.
You are mycelium, seeking

the steaming heap,
after the reaping
of digestion.  You are

present, Here, Love,
even as your presence recedes
beneath the surface, to slither

through the unseen root
system.  You sculpt shit,
in webs of little rEvolutions,

because it is your instinct.
And then, you act upon yourSelf
and turn what is hidden towards

the Sun, as the dung beetle."