Doing Now

Wavering a rhythmic pattern of mud, the death of an empty eucalyptus shell, metallic, clank.

A bulk of wolf fur that channels volcanic grass, wide open eyes, a nest of ants (You
smell like ants.), and so on. It’s dead, but fresh (Can you touch it?).

Black swans, black swans of the wetlands// he who mourns cannot/he who
mourns should not// a body that dislocates, the lands not his, not my own. I
cannot, I should not mourn.

The mud finds 106 ways to unfold its being — crush it, break it to
smell. The texture of identity is fractured, fragmented, and weak. Only
the words are doing now.