Were I buried unconscious,
face downward, on waking I
would think the sky below me,
for normally people are
buried with respect, face up.
Held firmly in place by an
even pressure of soft loam,
I’d be like a quivering
fly suspended in aspic
in the dark. Not the same for
a bean, planted eye downwards
from where roots emerge to grip
soil, while the stem performs an
astonishing U-turn to-
wards the light and air above.
How geotropically
apt, the way it knows up or
down in total darkness. I,
and the fly, manifestly
inferior to the bean
in its ecological
niche, reverse in status when
a bean is in the mouth where
despite all hidden powers
its resistance is futile.