Downstairs, things are growing.
Down stairs to the cellar
guinea eggs have quickened
and grapes have turned to wine.
Lye is burning through its tub
near potatoes with pale shoots,
and the molds are dividing
in jellies beneath wax,
that underworld
beneath the house with its bad family,
that world below
drumming
like old women
and blood stirring in the neck,
the older world
with its pale, thin roots of grass
and all things saved and growing.
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| mcclure |
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