It’s a day for gedeihen;

The gardens in me grow.

Behind my eyes

Sunflowers spit fat corns and drop them.

Lolling Angel’s Trumpets in sedated jubilation

And tender tendrils of Morning Glory curlicue

Through my pupils.

The wet snails of my cochleae

Slimingly uncurl themselves on fresh dew leaves

Whose edges caterbrows crunch and mumble.

Close my eyes

And they roll themselves in shrouds,

Blink and they emerge again from crusty hulls


They are blue.

It is blue-butterfly day here in Spring.

There were pumpkins in my neck.

In fall they swoll, popped, and scattered seeds–

Orange sommersprossen.  Schrumpfedremains.

The teeth are clicking beetles

Ecru scarabs, old and measurable totems

Past whom creased mauve worms grub

Smirking and mocking at stoicism.

Swarms of Maybugs populate my brainstalk.

Small green grazers there

Give ant milk

Unmixed with the meat

That the Maybugs take.

Slugs lie heaped and grey in a hollow.

They sleep.  From time to time they twitch.

Outside, the wild wind waves the hay.



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2 responses to “Arcimboldo

  1. Nice Erin. When did you write this?

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