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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