1. The weeds have bloomed between hemispheres, the dried leaf a crumpled wing, the twig a hind limb paralyzed. The silence of rocks crushing us like a vice— the pestle to the mortar, the porousness of anything in the path of a natural disaster.
2. The face of the desert is a woman or a man, a row of bamboo reeds twinned together and singing in tones of dust, scorch-marks and the color of sand, a coyote spirit drifting between the columns, barely visible from these coordinates, like the chin hairs of an ancient god.
3. You are a mirror bending light like an impression, like the reflection of something that never existed within the space that you’re tracing with your finger, something that adheres to the invisible laws of physics, A scaffolding. Maybe something to live by.
4. The frayed nerves, the natural world synaptic like the brain before its collapse, the colonies suffocating in the night, the footprint over the mouth as we measure its weight in metrics. You should know by now that breathing is the act of vanishing.
5. Cocoons of wonder and fibrous life, the magic of air-thin stems clinging to a root, a thought, the root of a thought like an ecological truth, a moment in which we defy the laws of science, the weighty predictions and pitfalls, memories like tentacles reaching back to the source, what someone might call the light of the firing mind.