We hear ourselves speak as though it is we who are driving this mad bus pell-mell down the mountain. Outside, under the juniper tree, the wasps are swarming, the bullfrogs relentless and…
Somedays I spend all day watching the tiny jumps of pulse
under winter skin so white, almost translucent
as if it were a sheet of ice under which rivers dove
downwards as if to crack the hard shell of the earth’s core
and recover a sense of ancient molten life.