[Response to It was hard to see the garden.]

he was on the bad trip of peace. this and that crawled and a very large thing that slowly changed phases crawled, too, depositing this and that in the bloc’s northeast corner. glacial till housed pounds and sous in yesterday’s buckets. water left it in its stack in the thicket. that was the alluvium in short shorts and a dark tank in a stack by the thicket. a sediment bucket with tics by the habitat pond. (this fly was endemic to the garden.) the garden was coarse, thorough, yet he refused to believe fluvially in its mysterious security. he felt sure he needed to convince somebody guarded of something particular. somebody would want to be convinced by him. but in the film of the catastrophe garden there was a point at which everything wasn’t going to be alright. no one peace was cosmopolitan, wasn’t it?, and no one endemic fly was cosmopolitan, either. flies had shells despite precaution. the garden guarded its peace like a particulate in alveoli. like a grain in upbringing. take shelter in thickets, long rides in cars and baked skin. take shelter in long rides in cars that wipe personality clean.


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