In the underground tunnel
she waved to a dead Confederate colonel.

She bit on a carrot—the better to see
in such a black place. (Black times three.)

Her roof was roots,
the netherside of small green shoots,

basements of mushrooms,
turnips and potatoes.

Pop goes
the weasel.

It's late. It's very very late.
The worms are turning,

and she must meditate, breathe
the earthy air before she suffocates,

before silicon and sulfate
stuff her like taxidermy.

Gophers and groundhogs, locust larvae,
the life of the blind—

the life of the mind and nose—
and down she goes, head

over toes.
Nor does she rise.

I'm not surprised.