Poem-a-Day

big brute clubmoss god. dark echo 
of roamable loam & leaf-fat trees. 
looming ungulate, polished 
& moonstone old, i linger 
at your dais, awed as any 
small-called thing. you: 
wide warden 
in a skinfilled room, 
unseeingly keen, each antler 
an open hand of bone. you sock 
the brass out of me, & the two 
gasping quebecois standing nearby, 
the sticky-fisted child 
gathering grapestems in his jeans. 
we wait—little bugs on a sill— 
for permission to look away, to 
murmur over any of the other 
pickled and polished things 
posed in this room, but you grant 
nothing. Watch Me Until I Become
Sublime, Dusk & Shining, you 
do not say, but i hear, somehow, 
over my rowdy blood, my 
clobbering heart, over all this 
wet business. something about 
death’s dry science. something 
about pop zoologists wagering 
your crown your undoing: 
ice grayed the grass faster 
than you could find it 
& so your greedy horns 
drank you dry. it’s not true, 
probably. i’ll die too, 
probably. will the world outpace 
my feeding? i won’t lie— 
i’d like to be looked-at, after. 
some unfamiliar animal 
at my knees, awed by an 
omnivorous bigness.