Dumb mud. Silt. Clay masks to mouth
candor, release pore. When peaches go so soft
they melt. Shit is warm because of its origin
within our cavities.
Our gallery, shaped as if intestinal
is merely underground. Tasked with
diagnosis, we’d guess dread
of the convoluted. Meandros. Rope
saves, strangles, lowers gently the gone body
from the gallows. Of four humors, none
is umber, a color come to for cure.
Hue of recovery: of earth and rivers
amending the earth, allowing passage
maybe art to transpire.
Our pieces traffic in human
breath. Seeds delivered on air.
They row thru brown—ale
and bread, root and song.
Those who wander our halls in tendril
we advise: Thatch deeply. Be woven
of dead matters. Decay
in thick layers.
It is an old way of home
—to conduct the rain.