This gob of vegetable soup that from a spoon
drops on The Lay of the Land by Annette Kolodny
is green as what the inked-in woman lies upon
in the jacket, her curves become art nouveau creepers.
She is the jungle from which life must rise:
call her humus. And this soup's history. I taste
how good it was, before its roughage, celery stalk,
coagulated into paste, a fiber conspicuous
as tarpit bones. The Lay of the Land asserts
we've been there before, clumsy as mastodons,
that we also place our constructs on a marsh:
a convenient remove from this self-help restaurant
the library's lavender skeleton, ugly study cubicles,
floats in moonless evening. Meanwhile I swallow hard
this remainder, marshy, wiping from pages the rest,
or rubbing it into green background -- as if to mark
this plot of words were desecration, spillage.
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