I’m alive to the anatomy of a starfish-weed tilting in the grass: I can’t say exactly how being alive works, how suddenly all of one’s cells collect to find a friend in the anatomies of things never thought about, until five minutes or one ripened in the sun suggests a gravity southward, light begins to shake out lethargy and instigate the anatomy of a thing, a form packed with waves and lines, bending as if nothing extraordinary at all is happening, a golden weed, perfectly molded on the land remembering an old dream of the sea, and kindly remembering for us too our own history of water.
