The chill and damp now permeate everything. The pages of books, the upholstery of my chair, the very walls, all feel as though they had never known warmth. The wold is stored away in some vast room of a deserted mansion, moldering, forgotten. I will dream of mushrooms growing about me as I sleep, engulfing me, absorbing all the rotted trees of all the ages of the forest. I will dream of waking to a fungal world of rubbery, hallucinogenic shapes. A fire needs to be lit in the stove.
A Sort of a Song
by William Carlos Williams
Let the snake wait under
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
--through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits