Mud Bottom

Drained to expose the mud that lies

beneath all sensitive membranes,

the pond looks ashamed to occupy

so much acreage for nothing.

On the shore the latest mushrooms

are skulls in memory of skulls

of creatures who’ve died of drought.

Their secrets aren’t available

anymore, although they understand

that draining the pond and drowning

fish in the pitiless air

meant something to someone elsewhere,

in another dimension, distance

the leer of mountains can’t explain.

I bag the edible boletus

for dinner, avoid the death-caps

standing aloof in the deepest shade.

Sometimes in the feverish light

of October I escape myself

and stalk naked but transparent

in falling woods, leaving no tracks

and calming the deer still browsing

the salad of this year’s growth.

Then my slack old skin-bag puddles

on the ground, an empty jump-suit.

If someone came along and found it

they’d mistake it for the rubble

of someone who drowned in the pond.

Today, though, there’s no drowning,

no escape from the body,

only a line of tracks that ventures

a dozen yards into the mud

and returns, tripping little bubbles

of swamp gas. I pack my mushrooms

in my hunter orange knapsack

and turn my back on the pond,

hoping my absence will heal it.