I write lyrics with my toes
‘til they wriggle out my shoes
for the rhyme of garden rows
and the rhythms of the ooze.
For the writhing crust sing: Oh!
The subterranean zoos,
The newts and roots and sparkling
in the blackest of earth’s hues.
Down below the
darkling spheres,
tuck me deep and
hold me close.
Throb, my ears
are hearkening.
Thrum, my mouth
and eyes and nose.
My particles quarkening
into archipelagos.
Disintegrating the blues.
That’s how it Galapa-goes.
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