The beauty of the breeze is the play of her touch, dissolving hugeness into discrete articulations, gestures that harmonize the monstrum into naturalized zoon.

Cross the creek, balancing on deadfall to touch a swath of moss, still spongy in midsummer. A while ago I would not have noticed, but now my feet are larger, skin bristling with new hairs, nose more sensitive too. Still, swilling through me, human thoughts make me shutter.

The black hole of nature's imagination and in general, the imaginary animals are not treated in a more fantastic


manner or given any special attributes or qualities m
anipulated into exhibits, safe, clean, predictable.

No biting bugs, no renegade wolves or bears; plants deracinated, draining entheogenic tendrils.

What I call the shape of weather
ing elements was
as important as

the Wailing
Wall—
is dry today.
          

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