Log

I have not heard the hollow sounds,
the hot tree rotting, the whole soft trunk,
however humid, heaving, what
has been exhausted here-to-fore--
the brown bark that's been well eaten,
and is bearing soil, birthing weeds.
It folows pure but inbred seed,
of blotched mushrooms--blooming about.
It cannot be in my conceit,
I've see it catharize and keep,
not seductive but concealed and sweet,
it capers to the maggots, but cats
who preen so kittily, don't seem
to peer inside the moldered trunk.