Today is four parts mulch, one part roots negotiating
with one part water. Or: too much earth, too much
gravity, too many regrets packed away in jars or pickling
in the cellar. I’ve envied air plants in their miniature
clay pots, suspended by slender cords of leather. They lean
so slightly on close to nothing. They even thrive. Did I
ever feel like them, seemingly unperturbed by the imminence
of early passing? The blue half life bright and moldering
away in its dish; carnival masks pleating into their base
of sequins and glue. I think I will miss me too when I
am gone. Let’s open the tins of escargot someone left
in the back of the pantry, and eat them with buttered toast.
So many things others call trivial can give such glorious
pleasure: a sliver of soap; a whole spoonful of chocolate.