by William Higgins


The line between

nature and soul

isnt manicured.


Its a wild hedgerow that splits cool dirt,

a tree through the window or the river that arches


like a spine

through the campus.

Mold runs across


crown moulding in the French room and mildew fills the air.

A bookshop grows a block long beneath the earth like a


magnificent Armillaria.

The line between nature

and soul isnt mani-


-cured, and denizens mine along that line. With a splayed compass

on a duster or bong shaped like a snake. I walk back


from night class between the creek and the green and am afraid

of a pair of sewed-on devil horns moving out from


behind the heavy elms.