(Barf Bag Poem #14)
Walk the acreage, as wild
turkeys do. You will discover
mushrooms, up from the first rain
in seven weeks. The rotting log,
felled from Fran’s furry, offers
a seat that collapses the way
memories do. You disrobe.
Damp wood chips intrude.
Sit long enough without moving
and a curious squirrel, three young
deer and various bugs will inspect
you. Blood flows to genitals.
Allow yourself to be excited by nature,
at this moment, as others like it, will
become the foundation of your
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