Here where we lie my smile kisses
night’s damp palm, darkly intimate
as fungus and mold in
the incestuous lichen. Here
beneath the ginkgo, a dusty smut
of spores furs the sullen air,
all full of rancid butter smell.
Your wood is blank and unwelcoming
save where lumpy finger-thick
roots twine pallidly and
pierce the grain, exhaling and exuding
secrets from the black, moist soil
for me to grub and chew and swallow,
like truffles, or like love. Scratch me
a little splintered hole, dear,
and let me see your smile.