there is a kind of hush beneath the green of things:
the brush of feet that sweep the floors,
that rush about
and seem almost to dance all by themselves
disconnected from their chores;
the crush of sandals home from shopping,
street-wise; beetles scuttling under doors, curiosity
So let us also go explore.
Nor do I do what you call
I turn inward like some twisted metal ~ tin foil
in the warming oven
wrapped around a yellow dinner plate, a curious old
that smells of something grandma baked:
Peek in at me; split me open:I will come at you
with hot fingers sprouting steam and tentacles.
I will take off your face,
show you to yourself exactly where I mean to go.
You'll wish you never came home late.
Oh, yes... I am much greener than you think.
I eat raw vegetables
and spit green blood out in the kitchen sink.
Do not be fooled.I stand up straight,
but I am, deep deep down ~ oh, deeper down!
you must think steeply, I suppose; more piglety ~
use the blunt end of your nose ~ think greedily,
I am worth the truffles... where was I? oh, yes:
outward straight but inward
I am mineral KINGDOMS!I am chained and PROTEAN!
I am sleek and black and slaved in sweat, but I am
WONDERFUL!I am GLORIOUS!
I am compost heap, but I am
PHOTOSYNTHESIS!I eat light and speak in SENTENCES!
I am fire in all that I desire:
I am PROMETHEUS!
I am hum-drum and I am tribal;
I am feet of moccasins pounding dirt,
I pound and pound.
I am forever stubbing toes.
I knife it
when I keep the beat
of Earth around her central Sun;
but she is low, she is
grounded; she is but
a keeper of the coals; she embers round
in heat, is barefoot brown, looks downward,
scrapes a living from her rock and stone,
grinds your bones,
has nothing much to share but seaweed...
oh! but when she does
No, I do not do what you call
I go emotional.I am illuminated animal.
Look for me when no one else is home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem