did you know that it is only soil and water that make the tree?
you take one page of soil and pass it like velum over one page
of water. and what of babies, my soiled page to your water-
shed, verso to recto? what springiness results then, what
uncoiling life! what of poetry? what of that? what of
murmurings and half remembered dreams? what is more
real, my leg or the chair? what if we were to crumble the
page of my leg and plant it inside the page of the chair?
what would be born then? what books? what verse?
what life?
