Possum Pouch

Black Stone 6

A SINGLE PINK ROSE holds to the greater green of the bush. Perhaps I'll plant an apple tree while the season's right. Cold soil, warm roots. Her stomach moves with his or her bumping. A California geographer said human culture developed along coasts. Warm water on naked flesh, we adopted easily to hairlessness and marine agility. Wonder what kept us from going out totally dolphin? Some mammals returned to the saline. We kept to the shore, tending fire instead. Sound of chimes in wind. K removes his diaper, handing it to me. His anxiety's not great, but he knows the new baby will come from his mother, intruding on his turf. The great de-centering. You can only wait. Listen to election-year campaigning, that distracting claim for attention. It's the shiny green beetle and the preying mantis I adore today. Insectoid urgency replaces human calm. No intelligence but the invisible membranes around us, these words remaining through the piled leaves and newly green salvia. Even the little sparrow on my lawn or the grey cat by the gutter carry through, related by uncertain and lost gods. The earth-bound babe comes into this, to the visible from the not. Into the panoply of every day things. Words make it new, opening the softer insides through the hard shells.