Q and A: Do you have any tips? Answer #2
How many times do I have to say it: Listen, a whine in a bulb, its hiss of life, the fragile sister of the mosquito, the electric life of wings. There is a wheel rut for each of us somewhere. Look closely at the skein of eggs, root the mud for a clamped oyster fallen from a truck. Cover your nose and mouth with both hands, and there, in that shallow cup, feel a buffalo's breathing steam. A toppled stone, its face veiled by weeds— crouch. The blooms become helmets. Allow for delirium, a thirst. Take in so much sun that you feel a cold absence, as if you’ve sipped a hole into the world.