Passage
The hole sheared out of the roseleaf
by the leaf-cutting bee,
the jagged track above the grass
as the insect finds its rhythm,
dizzily trimming discs
from the leafy air,
the fencepost, still as a heron,
simultaneously considered
and rejected,
the crevice between shingles
also turned away from,
an abrupt descent to earth
below spear level,
below the congregations
of crickets,
to a chipped stone in the dirt,
its inviting lip,
the cavity precisely dark
and generous enough,
the tunneling and rolling,
the mixture of saliva and pollen,
the stowing and masticating,
the capping and cradling,
an arrangement by age
between meticulous forays
to carve yet another green seal
from the leaf of the rose,
the redundant rose,
its white weight
hauling every stem away
from a consenting trellis.
Erica Funkhouser teaches a poetry-writing workshop at MIT. She is the author of (1992) and (1997).
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