Jake Syersak
From The Wilderness in Which the “I” Cannot Exist

so why are we here. we are here to resurmise a sunrise?

--to reprocess, I think,

what a garden is. until I think what a garden is

composts, then grows--into throes of--a garden is what I think.

frogs grate the evening out of

the leaves how morning out of dusk & I an eye from sleep.

& it’s complicated, braiding the bricolaged route, where the “I”

belongs--or doesn’t--along all that. today, I read that by 2050 the ocean

may be more composed of plastic

than fish. if this world gets any more unreal, realistically we’ll

need a more unruly lyric to view it, un-really: some unreal

lyric. a lot can happen in the tiniest

degree or two of detail

I invite myself into: tectonic, cerebral, temperature,

or otherwise--it’s eerie, really. Namib, Sonora, Gobi, Mojave,

Atacama, Black Rock: these deserts are orange rinds

on orange rinds rolling over with a fungal green which to them

spells disease & makes me feel human.

this world’s symbiosis with “I,” once too much

with “us,” now too little--by which I mean,

the last imagined joshua tree may depend upon

our imagining the last imagined

joshua tree--by which I mean, the length

from corduroy to snakeskin

is chiasmic