Lost in the leaves of a brain like the leaves of a table folded up or the wings of a machine, a machine for fluttering, a wind tunnel for dried eyes and dried colors and dried blossoms from last year, and no way to get far from home, or far from fluttering, like an insect that only loves stress or storms of hunger — like us, the insects get no vacations.
The tall dill plant fell over in yesterday’s rainstorm — everybody here is adrift in love, everybody is frequently unhappy, we’re deeply tinged with the wrong smells, like deet and lawnmowers, decayed leaves and sulky piles of compost, warbly singing and crusty lotions.
In my dreams someone is yelling Where Are You — then there’s a silence like a machine saying stop — a machine for silence and hesitations.