and when I got into my own fields
I did not know them

John Clare

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And inside our minds: burial manor, I mean it. And inside the manor: shelves of liquor and cans of Skoal. And inside the Skoal: cadmium and lead. And inside aluminum: the hatred of parents. And inside authority: floorboards rotting, microbes collapsing. And beneath the floorboards: alkaline soil, yellow philodendron. And beneath its crust: a nest of worms. And inside the worms: a whitish substance, a sensory membrane. And inside that membrane: a conscious star. And inside the star: years before, massacres after. And inside those years: powerline nostalgia. And inside the wire: plow-sparks on the asphalt, 8 degrees, unfelt fingers. In the chasm of sparks: how time moves, how it consumes. In that rampant consumption: a garreted attic. Inside that attic: deceased rodents, unopened presents. Inside a present: a crawlspace of labor. Inside that labor: the acquisition of capital. Inside that capital: distortions on a screen. Inside that screen: a crystal display. Inside the ocean: networks of cable, coral reefs. Inside that cable: kinesis, either undirected or in response to a stimulus. If in response to a stimulus: unending pain. And inside that pain: unending data. Inside that data: a canopy of survival. And inside that canopy: a failing bookstore, its bills unpaid. And inside that store: an elderly tabby, asleep on the counter. And inside that cat: the smell of parchment; pieces of thread; two house flies; the brain of a sparrow; a luxuriant heart. And inside that heart: the energetic origin. And in that origin: the sound of water. And in that water: some kind of language. And in that language: some vowelbody, some organic movement. And inside the organ: strands of DNA, a chest of wind. Inside that chest: the smell of pine; of cannabis; of lavender. Inside that lavender: asleep on the sofa. Inside that sofa: the earwig genus. Inside the genus: a memory held, the rusted grass retaining a history of sun. Inside the sun: transferrable dreams. Inside those dreams: nests of stuffing. Inside that suffering: nests of light, nostalgia, media decaying. Inside that light: a Lion King tape. Inside the shelf: pieces of yarn and nylon thread, a dot of semen, violent longing. Inside that violence: visions of corpses. Inside those corpses: visions of tulips. Inside those tulips: a colony of aphids. Inside an aphid: the potential for breath. Inside each breath: real estate, dismembered arms. Inside each state: electric fences with dried-up flesh. Inside each skin cell: the rise of empire. Inside each empire: legions of numbers. Inside each number: legions of hoards. Inside each hoard: the memory of blood. Inside the blood: the empire glowers.