Mutation. A poem by James McNaney


no one chooses the pupae
change is not willed but accepted –
build up that place to let the past rot in,
to morph and prove in yourself
until you do not remember your shape
and drip out of a web and find
that you have forgotten how to walk
but learnt, falteringly, to fly.


things break down when they are not stopped/from doing
decay is another word for ferment is another perspective
on feeding, propagation, on just-going-about-your-day-a-tation –
-but here! – you have built a thing out of
a sort of melting grain, something not thick enough to stew
and too acidic, too much of a snort-shock of vinegar upon opening
to enjoy smelling – and this dripping mass
has more life than anything in the house


the leaves do not stop moving and the road is still full
and there is sound beyond the hill in the city’s valley –
where there is life there are endings and also mutation
newness is forcing itself out of the kiln, into cooler air –
if you pay attention you will see the stars behind
the thin grey cloud that has defines the day
and can feel the future bunched behind the pause
if nature cannot abide one thing, it is an epilogue.


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