By Jessica Varin

You are a mountain of mulch and I am not your king.
       You are ruled by the centipede and the spider.
They do not fear
    suffocation beneath your broad slopes.

I’ve always wanted to play
   on your wood-chip peaks at the paper mill.
Alas, the foreman says I could drown
in an air pocket.     Instead I will watch
the spider climb and witness the centipede
    take it’s throne.

Mountain, you have swallowed
    lesser things than I.

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