by Eric Baus
Staring at the polished spirals of an antique miasma, I was felled from failing to gasp convincingly at the clouds. The foam from this storm was predicated on a sigh. Like a zone that was lanced into the peat of a grave, I graphed its elements for sympathetic gravel. Some moss spent all year longing for the cliffs, but how to clone enough rain to revive, how to hold a ram in your yarn until the tiny beast unboxes its breath? Watching moths fly is not the same as inventing sight was the wrong lesson to learn, I kept learning. I was trying to see how smallness is built from competing seedlings when I felt I had made my first descent. If I am only an amoeba bag now it is because of the bugs I brought with me.
Last updated May 14, 2019