Some, of course, are happier than you are. Birds, for example, little savages plundering the crumbs, or the ravenous burble of a stone, for instance.
I ask myself to come in. The surface of the question is a kind of refusal. So I go in.
There was a statement there about the redemption of sorrow illuminated in the patient meadow. And a mask worn by renewable semi-seismic insects. A partial, fragile carapace. Abandoned. An ethereal relic.
So I ask myself to come in further. I witness a voyage of stationary birthmarks thrust into a question so big it seems not to be there. And I begin to wonder if it’s enough to merely celebrate the chosen twig, if it’s enough to generate verbal occupants for the grand museum in the earth, exposed. If it’s enough to merely envy.
Crude sewing implements made from dark wire rested in the country of the dawn. By this time bread had been achieving a greater degree of adherence to the frequently misunderstood principals. I had witnessed a pock-marked pear on a polished table, the dark silky suit of a witnessing crow. A still life with motion still in it.
I just wanted to know why my previous body wasn’t there. I just wanted to trade in a few sins for something to say about my “self” and the world and the insignificant place I held in its turgid pit of redemption and despair that looked so much like a big beautiful endless sewer while time’s clumsy tornado drove all my friends like terrified badgers to a hole in the ground that could have been a place where meat gathered but wasn’t (though soon enough, if they just stayed there, you’d hear the worms saying it was, again). And the earth listened, just like that, to those it was closest to.
And then a flock of these friends descended like a returned gift, their new houses still warming. It’s true I was bigger when my house was new. She was still my mother then. The moment with the look of surprise. She lives in 1937. Which isn’t a happy year.
I tried to open up the sharing we did with our pants down. I tried to give it friendlier appendages. I still try, but by the time the world notices, the creature imprisoned will be free of itself and mutual.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.