Things Becoming Other Things

 

So I said a thing before I said it, I was unevolved, like a Venus flytrap set to below zero, but inside I soon zoomed up big as a saguaro at two hundred twelve degrees, which is what could come from planting a rooftop garden and piecing its pattern. The process as a weighing of water. My son, too, said things before he said them, like the day before his old girlfriend kicked her new boyfriend out of my son’s apartment, after she kicked my son out of my son’s apartment. I myself didn’t know this, but their Samsung TV most likely saw it, thanks to smart surveillance. A later day, I went down there to look. No one expects such a quick cut left, but you can’t protect a place from itself. People are surprised, alarmed, though so much seems to stay alive. See these dried peas under my pillow. Tonight I’ll swallow them down deep like seeds.