cider farms and cranberry bogs stress, not intent, decides to publish, jettison, destroy, or hide away forever, in cave settings, where dripping materials turn solid, substantive, historical; roped off for field trips. my dreams are chaotic, like cells rent with juice, crushed by time, leaking, merging content with source in a tumbled brown ooze that smells like vinegar, and smuggles generations in its carcass. I have found stasis in that constant fracture, an effervescent unity, like those two words whose names are what they mean; the cycle itself - no walls, no ceiling, no floor - just wishes becoming different in a void. dreams like wanderlust, the possibility of seeing endless lines on the bucket list, more crumbs from cider doughnuts, leaving the smoke of desire in muscle, a slow craving, circling silent over tree lines, like tradition, like feasts after football, long drives through cold swamps, a deathly sleep from a full belly, the smell of red berries boiled down, with perfect care, into memory.
