Phalloides
a clergy of pale cowls
preside over a banquet
of frothy decay,
and we wonder
on such fleshy bald popes,
brash as condyles,
how they glisten,
sunbathing in wind
as it buries autumn
in remnants of greys and yellows,
cold as an aimless gravedigger.
the only excuse
a death angel ever needs
to batten on the fallow
and prophesy snow.
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