As I sat under a fig tree in my dream last night, I wondered what it must be like as a beetle crawling across a muddy patch in a community garden, thinking the universe of the tall, unmowed grass. A little oasis between the cracks of a concrete path, leading nowhere. Crushed under the weight of its own existential disregard.
An avalanche came at me last Thursday, so I hid under a rock and willed for it to go away
This sunflower likes warm coffee
A diptych of sound and light and voices and shadows;
An army of wasps following the tidal waves; dye on unbleached cotton
This conversation has reached its natural end
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