Paul Willis
Corky roots, thick-curled
like snakes, you could be
the half-buried head of Medusa.
What makes you writhe
the way you do?
Why do you embroil
this trail in a quickening maze?
Whatever it is that turns
your gaze, I fear you
will fix it forever.
Little weed on the trail,
if I were an ant,
I would rest in your pale
shade like a slave
beneath a baobab tree.