After a Theme from Tranströmer
Looking for all the world like some creature’s innards,
there are mushrooms wet with last night’s rain at my front door.
Tomorrow they will be on the stone slab that passes
for my welcome mat. They have crawled there alone.
Their movement is like that of a slug across salt flats.
In such expanses we taste the quick, bitter herb of earth
which is not the earth’s, and is not an herb,
but is us.