From the chronicles of trees
she wants monsters:
baleful Destroying Angels,
stellar brides of hell,
all innocence and virulence
in petticoats and veil,
or troops of gleaming Death Caps,
goose-stepping through leaves,
marshalling for massacre
in copses, killing fields, as if
escape clutched in her hand might gift
In forests damp and warm,
in thickets blanketed by spores,
the Prince with Devil's Fingers
knows their secret, loamy holes.
He can smell them, see them, feel them swelling
opening the ground,
thrusting through the litter
with a hungry, crackling sound.
He finds her Velvet Shanks and Blushers,
puts an Amethyst Deceiver in her hand.
In the sultry, starless dark,
she'll settle for a zodiac
of flesh and pearls and earth.
another collaboration; picture of the Cerne Giant and Stinkhorn by me, poem by Deborah.