Sidney Wade
Night. A mute white dwarf
in earthmoving hat
bulbs up from the mold.
It has nudged and shoved
its smart headstrong head
through the discrete wood.
Now its exquisite
fruiting body feeds
on the broke-down else,
infiltrates the blank
detritus of lives,
and rises and smells
like a star. This is
degenerate news,
the small moonlit kind.
