He left behind broken phrases—
Pickerel smile, glistering snail,
The inexorable sadness
Of pencils, nakedness my shield,
Congress of stinks, and all the rest—
Their greenhouse danks and funkiness.
They settled into potted soils
Like those that had first grounded him
And given him earth to grow in,
Big, doughy boy like a fungus,
Pale fruiting body fringed with threads
That feathered underground for sex
Among words like hothouse humans.
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