At first, Scritch hides mimetically, weather-split,
scabrous trunk against a backdrop of woodbine,
gallica rose, but, confused, portrays photosynthesis
as a species of necrotic mold. Its animal guise
is, then, undermined by a similar failure to note
a thickness appropriate to membrane to coordinate
sinew and bone. Once anatomy theaters boasted
stark Edens where cadaver Eves posed, enacting
the transgressive moment for medicine, metacarpals
and sterna exposed. In the garden, not Leiden,
the gargoyle has forgotten why it’s hiding. Who
knows if it really is meant to be seeking, if all
questing, like subterfuge, causes other problems.
Do aphid-riddled apples bestow lessons untrue?
In the chimney, Scritch discovers a lost world
where leathern prehistorics nurse grievances
only comprehensible in mouse-bird romance.
Not even sweeps (traumatized larvae) could unfurl
such fantasies of hollow earth or antipodes.
Silurian becomes Mesolithic. The lower Scritch crawls,
the closer it comes to indignation at such pitfalls
of design that leave pockets of flue gas to corrode
its lungs, which scarcely hold together as is. It can
feel itself degrading like compost. In this midden
between walls, children once were tamped
to haul brushes, the fires beneath them intended
to embolden claustrophobic nature. Like soot-fall,
Scritch descends, creosote addled and clawed.
 Skeletons posed as Adam and Eve by an apple tree in the anatomy theater at Leiden.