Moss
How must it be
to be moss,
that slipcover of rocks?—
imagine,
greening in the dark,
longing for north,
the silence
of birds gone south.
How does moss do it,
all day
in a dank place
and never a cough?—
a wet dust
where light fails,
where the chisel
cut the name.
to be moss,
that slipcover of rocks?—
imagine,
greening in the dark,
longing for north,
the silence
of birds gone south.
How does moss do it,
all day
in a dank place
and never a cough?—
a wet dust
where light fails,
where the chisel
cut the name.
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Disclaimer
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Reprinted from Peripheral Vision, published by Small Poetry Press, Pleasant Hill, CA. Copyright © 1997 by Bruce Guernsey and reprinted by permission of the author, whose latest book is “The Lost Brigade,” Water Press and Media, 2005. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.