Wyeth, Spring Fed, 1967
In a kitchen where mushrooms were washed,
the mushroom scent lingers.
As the sea must keep for a long time the scent of the whale.
As a person who’s once loved completely,
a country once conquered,
does not release that stunned knowledge.
They must want to be found, those strange-shaped, rising morels,
Lichens have served as a lamp-wick.
Clean-burning coconuts, olives.
Dried salmon, sheep fat, a carcass of petrel set blazing:
light that is fume and abradement.
Unburnable mushrooms are other.
They darken the air they come into.
Theirs the scent of having been traveled, been taken.