It is the full moon again, again in the
sky which has grown crisp like water
butting against the stolid autumn
I am a mole in its hole or
an unincorporated territory,
a far, fair taiga, not yours.
Not yours though.
Today in deeply steeped
ground crowned by older growth,
three panther amanitas:
with proper collars beckoned
not so much be with me as
My love has been submerged
in the forest tea, everything grows
hazy loses its succinct and honest bite
I forget what I love besides amanita
pantherina, am hardly tender
for another animal.
There is no other lantern neath
my quilt. I must don my own garment
and devour my own meal:
I do not have a single complaint
that cannot be stalked back to my own dirty paws,
no burden on my back that cannot be tracked
back to my hands
an older book says,
find the red foxes with lanterns tied to their tails.
rub the yarrow on your face, oh all you have known.