PS Cottier

Bulb

Dirt-dunked like a tulip, the head erupts,
lava lines of black, darker than any ink,
lead from that buried hub, sprawling out,
seeking prey. Such dark questing feelers,
chameleon tongues probing, blind fingers
fondling scent braille of scattered crumbs.
Ants scurry back to their deep earth home.

P.S. Cottier

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