POLY
PHAR
MAKOS

KY
KE
ON

HAOMA

I would rather be tethered by a pathetic fallacy than an excellent one.

I look into the plant and see myself. When the plant looks into me, what does it see?

the once-physical plant appeared to me as smoke
a small shrub, wiry and sun-hardened
now dense black-gray smoke
an exhalation of the bitter ground
each spine, each hair, each leaf contoured with dark fumes
its flowers blown a thick white vapour

I could feel the roots of its spirit.

a figurine with a sown field pattern

you see, but the field feels

lady of the open field

bitter grass in the field

it is Summereve, and my mind is leafmeal



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