Sometimes, I’d rather lay face down in the moss

Than pick the rose petals

& Pretend I’m full of purpose


I’d rather let the earth clean me

Feel myself slowly getting wet,

My undershirt getting ruined

My chest going deeper,

My back slackening,

Breathing in rich,

Living soil.


My eyes open.

The golden hour

Inches colder on the trees.

I am scrubbing moss off my clothes

I am turning on my phone’s flashlight.

The yellow bulb above the door reels me

And once inside I go immediately to the faucet.


That night I will watch the evening news

Nitpick a meal out of my ‘feed’

And use cross intonations when my mother says ‘your generation.’


I never thought it would come to this

When you look at me this way.

At day’s end

There will be so much to accomplish!

Please forgive my transgressions

If the back door slaps my shins

And I stumble through the night

Searching for moss.

One thought on “Moss

  1. sometimes I’d rather lay face down in the mud
    and let worms carve cavities in my bicuspids
    than take out my rage in spin class–

    holy stain and hole in jean
    dirty palm and musty balls.

    today, concrete and asphalt
    spread their asscheeks, online
    and across space.

    I’m here on my knees fingering
    my sweaty-handled pix axe
    and chisel prayer:

    if the mud lie past
    puckered anus
    or pickled sweatband,

    let me slog with canine fury
    to where the mud has always been

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