by Bruce Guernsey


How must it be 

to be moss, 

that slipcover of rocks?— 


greening in the dark, 

longing for north, 

the silence 

of birds gone south. 

How does moss do it, 

all day 

in a dank place 

and never a cough?— 

a wet dust 

where light fails, 

where the chisel 

cut the name.