Sunday, February 14, 2016


Dag Terje Filip Endresen, "Entrance
to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, seen
the day after its opening," 2008

Between waking and sleeping, I float in some
indeterminate place, catch glimpses of myself
through dream-crusted eyes; find myself there
in the Bardo of Napping as the ghosts of cold
milk, warm cookies whisper, “Lie down, hush,
go to sleep now.” It seems I’ve caught a cold.
I sneeze in triplicate until I’m elsewhere, visit
unfinished landscapes where scrubby low trees
smell like sarsaparilla and the flowers bleed red.
There, I’m riding a seed that’s hoisted by ants
who pass me from one to another, myrmechorial
dancers sending me and theirs on towards the
cache: a new Bardo, the Bardo of Seed-Banks.
Sleeping again, waking again, unsure if I’m in
loamy tunnels or in my own bed until tossed
out; falling out of that dream, I place one bare
foot, then the other, on the floor. Loose seeds
roll beneath my feet, all just aching to sprout.

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