I live on the river, on green earth wet with dew, underneath the world we built on top; under the leafy canopy, in quiet, transpiring breaths where one can hear plants and animals,
I wrinkle and fold my presence into the veins of my quasi-friends: beetles, ferns, mosses, lichens.


At sunrise, when my moist architecture is illuminated, I make sugar of air and light.


By early afternoon, I dream of rain; I dream of elegant tactics for water retention, 
until the desire to fill my capillaries begins to slice time and the shrunken membranes of my cells seek circulation. 
It is in that cell, an anchorite cell, where I find the source is the end.


Inside the world in movement, in dimensions led by change and mucilage, the end comes always in clumps—to sustain, support and propagate.


A mother, head in slime while scales hold her music together, I spill into shoots, plump and shiny. Young fern fronds develop tightly coiled from the tip, gradually uncoiling as they grow. 
Temples register this circinate vernation through a symphony of sound and sight, 
in an entirely green pulse, almost poisonous. And I pray for the veins of my inner paths always to resemble the venation of a frond.


A day of pulling and pumping to keep my papillae plump; the time-slice melts into dream. 
At the fall of night, I hear the calling from subterranean worlds of intimacies feeding on intimacies.


Rootscapes, veinscapes, feed-on-dead-leaf-feeding fruiting bodies. Here, in the dark, wet mystery of the garden, the arms, legs and neck also rot, feeding all that may matter and smell as earth smells. Bugs lay their eggs between toes and in other warm sacks of my memory.


In daily life, I maintain intense relationships with, and receive visits from, men and women, both human and more-than-human, some of whom live a considerable distance from the monastery of my green dimension.