SUBPASTORAL

•

NEED CONTRACT

Lift a log and salamanders—
adults with bulbous heads

and slinky babies—burrow 
back into wet earth. Another,

and a trio of skinks freezes 
as you crouch above them. 

A third reveals a skittering
glut of spiders. It only takes 

a modest revolution to enter 
the underworld, peopled not 

by shadows, but by more life. 
And so it waits—patient, 

patient—to envelop us all 
in the muck of unbecoming, 

make music of dirt spilling 
from fallen-open mouths.

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