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GOATMOTH
For
three years, while at large,
spring
stocks up, winter sticks,
the
goatmoth caterpillar drills in oak,
a
dollop of maggot with no eyes.
Its
smell is the slime of goat’s tallow
left
to ripen in the heat of worm.
Belly
bald, like a bloody yolk,
a
back the colour of raw beef,
a
head of jaws as black as pliers,
an
intestine on pad legs.
No
predator ever queries long
over
the stink of this morsel.
It
assists trees going back in condition.
After
three years of chewing dust
it
becomes a moth with no mouth,
dies
quick. The embellished
wings
are
good for a day, they spread the smell.
Original,
undying worm.
A
sacrament fit for an empire.
The
Romans ate them roasted.
Alan
Marshfield
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