You are too many things, each dislodged with a trowel and a crisis. That which spreads roots is more than its velocity and location. One can’t exchange fragments for nostalgia without a narrative. Inside and outside are just theories. The texture of a real thing is somehow separate from you and part of you at the same time. You are a cabinet that contains: compartments with broken brass connectors, lattice gears as if the organs of a watch, green cuttings of yellow tissue, rare triangular coins, fossilized fruit peel, a sharp tooth perhaps from an angel, a sentence that unfurls for pages making you hold your mind’s breath, a turquoise glass eye or oversized marble or a gateway to another world, a brown box within a gray box within a white box, a rolled-up scrap of parchment on which is printed a list of ships that sailed to Troy to deliver packages ordered online, plundered useless data, match sticks, dust of comets, poems & allegories, games started and never yet finished, colors themselves unattached to corporeal objects, a computer constructed of bones, a heart that was once yours. This feeling of flipping the page of a book, not engaged enough to knit an abstract pair of wings. Some tissue of continuous communication that keeps modulating and breaking its polyrhythm. There is no need for classification. My garden is just a bed of weeds and dirt. That which dreams is an animal or an equation with wings. You are inside your own heart, telling the story of its compartments. You are a library and junk shop of things that nobody cares for. Such as yellow pencils with good erasers and cases for them that snap open and closed. You are an out-of-tune piano, getting older by the day, offered free to anyone willing to transport something so heavy & dissonant, basking in the light of obsolescence.