words, currently: a means of overriding concussive moments,
which water memory; of re-ordering soil structure: is it my
body that's heavy, sinking deeper among the snapping and electric,
or is it the water itself, weighing me down, one among jewels?
Of re-structuring soil orders working when biological, when
concomitant with organs and blood flow. To consider is an
improvement upon order and structure both. As for the biology
of things, there is an elaborate history of suckering and
error -- including contemporary "organics" and post -- that
needs to be bedded and burned of romance and/or misunderstanding,
and loss built upon loss and neglect, with words, currently.
We saw no birds
our preoccupations distracted us mud
sleeving the limbs of the trees in coming
waves, the spiny fruits of thoughts
hard hemming the cover of witness
over tail feathers; fledging birds rest
less in the rustling glands of reeds.
We too are
fat and feeling
it, the felt woosh whose
and accusatory beak quarter our beliefs
of what these birds, if any, have
to give, to banquet with song
and shit naturalisms of the under
were never fit
for wanting more than light and intimate
emptiness, though we've gotten it
tided to us with the risk of not possessing any
thing to claim as walking, to claim
a loss on.
Just who is that
in the hallway?
of property on the mat?
'e or 'e, who
with the legacy of this this
in their dwindling
to decide upon
made much, no doubt,
doubts, of teas
horsetail, of manure,
around for rhizome
snaps, you'll suffer the ropes and ever,
bringing things from off-farm,
and folding them in among the native
dignitaries; watering and letting the soil
dry out, resting their chins in the dirt
for a first glimpse of cotyledons
digging their way out of that sable,
as if on assignment
gutless hope --
railed to a hollow
of drip tape.
the influence of explosion,
which says: here
you can suffer,
you can measure
the seeds and more:
waste and die-out
here is all you can
across the clear-
. . .
run along to your beds,