Peoria, Tazewell, And Woodford: Here, There & Everywhere

Bulbs by Mike Foster




Bulbs, blind green eyes

That open beneath our feet; the sleeping germ

In the dead heart of earth

Clutches up at air

Like the fingers of one shot and entombed alive,

Clawing up to air,

Found months later when the stiff hand

Trips two lovers lost in the woods.


Bulbs, they are too much like men.

Bulbs, their spasms are too known.

Bulbs, they are not as we angels

Who looked once at God with green and even eyes

And spoke to him in Latin.


20 April 1975


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This entry was posted on January 31, 2016 by in Uncategorized.
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