The Language of Moles (poem)

Trees rust in the deep autumn
like skeletal Chevrolets abandoned
in the woods not far from where we are now. Listen —

you can hear acorns falling
from the sky like dead satellites, hitting
the grass with the soft finality

of a last breath. And the crows
are ecstatic — they swarm the sunset
in vacuous clouds, black

as the rippling shadows
battleships throw to the eastern waves,
dappling the fins of lingering sharks.

Decay is nothing new. We’ll all taste
graveyard dirt and suck rainwater
from dark yew roots. We’ll burrow

like cicadas into the sweet soil
and forget about burning skyscrapers
and the price of oil. We’ll know the soft

language of moles, the underworld’s
earthy vault, and, at last,
nothing else.


Thanks to the editors of Ligeia for including this poem in their Spring 2020 issue.

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