I dream of Sasquatch jogging over pillows of igneous rock, where in the middle of a clearing every species makes itself up. Not necessarily by deliberate choice, certainly not at the whim of distinct individuals, but some pretty hairy people inhabit the big trees. In one tale, a girl is carried off by one of these—Dzonoqua, the Wild Woman of the Woods...the girl has been crying, and to frighten her into silence, her grandmother says, in a manner of deep slow experimentation, intentional marks lurk.

In the crooks of shadows, Sasquatch transists worlds as a trickster crossing all realms at once. When you think she's here she's there. When you think she's this she's that. No wonder pictures of her are blurry!

An ecologically mysterious
network overwhelms the anthropocentric
unnamable
itself an emergence of
what for
economic concern merely acknowledges
a declared sensibility   drawing on

  as myths
                 surface along
  the length of the bed.

 

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