Thursday September 29, 2011

Tiny holes riddle the leaves of a heal-all plant, turning it to orange-tinged lace. What small creature requires so much medicine?


  1. HOLES

    There are holes and there are holes:
    these are almost delicate patterns
    seen against the punctures on her
    face—wellsprings of solace, bliss,
    warranty, trinkets, pecking order
    symbols, insignia’s of heft on Wall
    street—greed, vanity of vanities.

    What picayune creature needs all
    this panacea, this balm for ennui?

    The caterpillar crawling on the leaf,
    gives back a mariposa’s glorious
    colours, a lietmotif of magical dabs,
    to show for those holes. Maggots
    on the fallen leaves become fruit
    flies, dump flies bound by ordained
    duties in this woods’ give-and-take.
    Green fodder from those holes
    are miracles of growth and beauty.

    But those holes on the side of hills,
    entrails of ruptured caverns, dug
    geysers offshore and spring caves,
    mines-quarries-tar sands-reefs,
    abandoned common graves in gold
    and coal mines moistened by blood
    and congealed sweat— are diadem
    vaults of stones, silver, myrrh, gems,
    uranium, plutonium, plosive grit—
    all, all molten nosegays to crown
    the smallest creature of them all,
    fig-leaf-covered man and woman
    still in bad need of blandishments
    of comfort, power, and lust to cure
    his inchoate, eternal smallness. Pity.

    — Albert B. Casuga

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