Involuntary hungers leach into the pulp-soaked mycelial concourse
that threads through soil where fundamental knowledge we haven’t found
may still be camouflaged. Each moment is a river where inception
overflows, if only to keep up with stones on the bottom of water.

Wanting simply to live, to continue here without dying, hoping to
notice indications of light while withering and blossoming advance,
being here is an effect of transformation on arms of old trees that tell
time in the story of transcendence.

Small as we’ve been in the midst of indivisibility, as those who’ve
come back and gone on where little stays put, the mind can be relieved
of weight which has set upon it, but I’d like to know how. Maybe this is
the chance to fly to a plant and disappear in minutia.

It turns out the solar system revolves as the compass needle points
to the genome, and the chest rolls on rhythmic nerve rooted in birth and
the sensorium we inherited, that lives by letting us live, whether or
not the salt oceans flood.