The tension between us
Is a high wire act, our little Hamlet
Played on a stage of rotted wood
A fungus colonizing our substrate

My weed is your Bulleit Bourbon
Your rye whiskey is my Grandma’s Stash
(You say to my turned back) and this land
Is not some Jeffersonian pie-in-the-sky
It’s the fruit of dirt mailed around the globe
Give me space and you’ll find the dapple
In my eye

The shadowed eve of our long day
Allows a slight repair: we’re on the path
To the fallen barn and at the base
Of a mossy ash you find a Scarlet Elf Cup,
Brushing back debris you uncover five black
Eruptions of Dead Man’s Fingers
You don’t bother to look up