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If grass explains what is invisible
beneath it, each blade in shorthand
spells a corresponding channel
cut, continuing below
the dirt’s horizon, and is no grave.
The muscles underground
exceed their animals, extruding
tunneled wakes. As phosphenes flare
beyond the retina’s range
yet wear its colors. As pygmy mice
that nightly set a pebble wall
to seal their burrow’s entrance.
The field’s grass phalanx
quivers as it stays
itself against all shadow, feather,
breeze, fur, shifting
surface light, expanse, each flimsy
arrow leveled at indifference.
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But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.