Lately the lines between delusion and veracity
have grown less clearly defined, like the blurred
border between ocean and noon sky.

I want to soar tonight to the rim of a cauldron
of melting mountain—then plunge like an osprey
into that bowl of bubbling molten rock—

broasted in stone, vaporized into ash, transported
into my next life—maybe a cockroach or maybe
a whale-wolf, willing to risk all for one wild ride.

The sun did not shine today—it’ll never shine
again, not in my mole grotto beneath the mountain
where I burrow through moist, musky loam.

But life is good here. I have earthworms, juicy
grubs, and larva. My spit paralyzes prey and I
store live worms in my earthy larder for days.

My nimble paws squeeze muck from worm guts,
leaving only raw flesh to sate my ceaseless lust to eat.
I love to dig—tunnels are my passion, my obsession.

So it goes, eternal hours digging, sniffing, rooting—
with unexpected discoveries of meaty ant formicaries,
beetles, and nightcrawlers. Some days I go hungry,
but I keep delving—because that is what life means.


Author of several published novels and over a hundred poems, stories and articles, Jerry McGinley edits an online literary magazine called LAKE CITY LIGHTS.

Soil photo by By Wielemaker, WG & M Nachenius ( via Wikimedia Commons.