We never expected this. Shapes
in our shapeless garden. The crude
mound we’ve been growing, Dirt,
is gone. One of the shapes points
to itself, “Willem,” or no,
“Phyllis,” it’s hard to understand.
“That thing,” you say, “I think that
thing’s Dirt mixed with far whispers.”
Low chants from the rubbish shed.
In every direction obscenely
figs sprout. “I’m going in,” you yawn,
and of course Pop’s too busy with
his slime-mold farm to come out
and see. Meanwhile, terrible groans
are general. Terrible wailing and
gnashing and multiplying.
You stroll by, “Dirt’s back,” snap
your chewing gum like a yo-yo, “well,
I mean, not him exactly but a slew
of Baby Dirts.” I turn. The shape
called Willem is there and, behind it,
our garden, a plot of suckling mounds.
On my cheek I can
feel the shape’s spiny breath.
Gravel tears in its eyes —
my eyes, it’s then I notice.