168. prudence, an onion

the crested and plain, the pumpkins and cranes,
to pick up the pressure, re-gear again — 
if threads are the specie, the coleslaw, the grain,
make them as many, as millions, even

rats are contagious, replete, permeating,
and past presents poorly, jawless and jaded — 
crested upstaged, his great golden plumes
are gnawed to a stump, a sulfurous root

the gourds may be massive, but rats just run past ‘em,
devour to the ground the vines they are fastened — 
without their food, no matter how huge
they wither and starve, fermenting like fruit

diana is watching, she’s not much a part of
the scene that spells out, though she had caused it,
but when she inspects, past, present, and dead,
they’re quickly enveloped in even more threads

small filaments, microscopic even,
grow and inject, and dissolving dissect
the bodies of dead, or thoughts, or intents,
a thin silken basket buries them in

fertilize for — a mulch? i don’t know,
but even the rats can’t stop the regrowth — 
as much as they stole, and crops that they spoil,
it comes back the next year in fresh blooming soil

microbial mats and fungus grow fat
at every advance of plato and rats,
for each fop or king, philosophicating,
dissect it, dissolve it, it won’t stop creating

diana doesn’t need to do much to stop,
the rats will soon enough run themselves out,
and plato frog-beak, his monsters drawn down,
will still be in margins to cheer people on

difficult reading, and stories misleading
of things and/or thoughts that perhaps once were real, but
however you like, or you placed your bet,
diana was right on the dangerous/stretch