In The Tall Grasses

Quinn held the quicklime ready,
When I brought him to the fox deformed
By tooth of dog and paw of days, but
Paused: behold, there was a swarm.

Under fur the larval dance,
Ebb of flesh and flow of flies, that jive
That mocks the lunar waltz
For its constant measured fall. And all

Of it, even capped stalks
That look to be of Martian spore,
We then knew were not of the heavens
But children of a selfish germ. So squirm

My brothers, writhe and eat,
Flow like kudzu from open veins; your stains
Will prove matter in hungry states
To be a thing of malice, become things of grace.