THE FUNGUS
Where I live
it is cold and dark inside.
So cold you never know
how warm the day is,
so dark you never know
its hour.
Outside the window peaches have changed
into their wedding gowns again
and the last of the winter oranges
are ripening in the sun.
But outside forms no part of my possession.
The heart that slithers out of its hole
to curl up in its sunshine warmth
must risk being stoned.
That is why I keep like fungus
to this cold and dark interior
and in everything that I do,
it is only the fungus that shows.
