The sun is a farm truck that riots the bean rows, curating and collecting on the debts of stillness incurred by dreaming.
I am learning radical slowness, like the sloth that carries algae and bugs in his fur to make him smell like a tree. He moves so slowly that predators do not notice him. I find the bark of life is good holding ground for my preternatural anchor.
In what story book are we imagined? And what dark salt bed, succombed to what inland sea, holds us here transfixed like Lot’s wife?