Walking, I find my body where it is:

and sitting, or leaning, or wanting
to fall asleep in the middle of
the afternoon. Or getting up
from the table to wash a plate
at the sink, and finding a roach
behind the toaster. Isn’t that
a body too, and that of the slug
that tore the leaves of basil
into a kind of lace? Today
is the first day of autumn
and I found not a single new
fig on the tree. A friend gave
me a bag of chestnuts shaken down
by hurricane winds— what else
to do with them but take up each
brown body and boil and score them,
then feed them whole to the fire?

In response to Via Negativa: Walking.