Ben Redhead

moveless moss scene, mind when, earlier times, all covered in this happy mulch.
know how to turn words into worms, and send them into the clayish soil

from where pots spring.

the first paint was animal blood, language is a compost
and when you speak
I think you are a heavy stone,

a lonely weight,
barely resisting a gravity which would return you

clotting to land.

for when the ground is wet
of dream, this protective silver can let go for you.