without telling me it's impossible— Tell me about soft green that emerges in between burned roots and branches, and of the slow sorting of stones, the choosing of what withstood the worst. Tell of the even slower: return of movement in the outer reaches of air, in hollows opening again to rainwater. Patient schools of dinosaur shrimp, harboring their cysts. Red bark beetles flat as guitar picks coming out of dehyrdation. At the very bottom of the Antarctic sea, glass sponges undulate, though they might not even remember when they last ate, 15.000 years ago.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
