what next
what might turn into what grow into what as out of mud
what place might humans have in the turbulence
so awkwardly creaturely lumpish with legs
switching language around wishing it could out of nothing
on the phone she says moldy bread was put on wounds
—civil war wounds or mushrooms or dirt—
there’s garbage in the Balboa creek watershed chip bags
Styrofoam clams plastic this’s and that’s congealing
someday computer altered frog cells could eat them
yet the transitoriness of all we know we are fractures us
damns our creaturely minds self-destructive in intent
crows must have been something else before they’re so self-assured
skies marked up with ink pens they roll around on ant hills
open up locked boxes laugh at us clumsy sorts
even ground water doesn’t last we once imagined
oceans swirling unending underneath water into water
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