If I could find my way to the egg on the pedestal, if I could find my way to the walking rock…
No table salt, no laughing pepper. No funny farm, no moldy vegetables.
Rot in a garden, where do we see that rot, the heavy mosses, the packed earth of the path? The beaten borders, crumbling boundaries? The edge trees fallen into the river, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, in a death flirtation with the current? Where do we see that?
Where do we see the planes? How far away are they? The red light blinks in the sky at night and there you are, another person.