Terroir.

The problem with our

Connectivity is that we’re never lost anymore.

Or it’s a different kind of lost. One without

Depth.

The compass is hypersensitive, outfitted with

Expertise on how to

Survive. The leaves that are shaped like almonds

Are poisonous—the earth is edible and specific to

Its place. You could open a sandwich shop with it.

Wildlife has been managed. Lest we wander there

Are adults with flashlights out there,

Grooming the Cezanne-like confusion

To greater effect. The snacks.

The movie begins at seven—silence.

The hummingbird.

Inside the smallest things 

Beat the hearts of gods. Predators

Come with their vast

Ambitions and

They look as the clock of love tells

Time in microscopic, if unromantic, syllables.

No resentment in their ticking towers, but

Neither is there anything like sympathy.

They’re just looking for sugar. 

Trustworthy doesn’t exist on the map.

Easy, simple, neither.

It is mostly a plain space divided by time on the map.

If you were to prune away enough of the healthy moment

And dig online 

There, you would find the body in a bed of sorry

And no knock warrants.

There you go.