You are deep cradled in the palm of thousands and their collective voices hand you over, and over into and through spaces and matter. You are at once moss, bark, leaves, petals, stems, mole fur, moth wings, hair, skin, twigs, animal flesh and blood and bone and the porous body of insects (all of them dead) mostly bacteria and microbes, all of it slimy and moulded over, wet and breathing, grinding down into the same black mulch that is the corpse of all the forest. 45% mineral, 5% organic matter and 50% voids. In corridors and unoccupied rooms there is always a draft (somewhere the window is open). The coat is sewn with empty pockets. Now we burrow through the shedding of the earth and regurgitate. The feed is made of itself. Crumble. Decay. Burst. And there is the mealy earthworm, pushing blind face forward towards the vibration of the rain. ✱✱✱
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