1.15

A black bear roots in the

garbage, his nose deep into

coffee grounds, grapefruit

rinds, and other wonders

of disuse.

In the garbage pit of my

childhood, behind the shed

with the tin cover held down

by bricks, it was clear that

life is sui generis. Put in swill

and ipso facto there they were,

larvae, worms, maggots and all.

Maybe though it was bear’s

breath that did it, fetid, sweet

and warm from some deep

slumber place, liquid nectar

dripping and creating from

some distant plan.The soup

of life pressing forth.

Isn’t that how it always is?

Whether the bear knows it

or not?

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