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Poetry Corner

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Lichen

Robert Wrigley


Not a moss but slower, a kind of lumpenproletariat

fungus come in bunches no one keeps an eye on.

Grandmother ones, grandfathers, though where they're at

they're babies, half birthed among a thousand tiny generations.


And lacey they are, tightly massive as minimal forests,

but always more beautiful the closer you look.

And holding the dew in billions of pin-prick droplets,

they drink their fill and wait, the very name meaning to lick.




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