Beneath the topsoil, tangled synapses of roots. Who says what to each other across these lines, to make such intense blue-violet in the beds of verbena? Even unmoving, unruffled by wind, they are electric. The smell of soil clings to my fingers. A few dark grains lodge under a fingernail. In bed at night, I curl up and bring my hands to my nose. From under my tent of white sheets, the hallway light flickers like a train stop somewhere ahead, before it comes into view.


In response to Via Negativa: Cocooning.

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