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Forests are where you hear the trees—
a foreign film murmuring.
Undercover life forces tunnel, restructure
the strata of decay, fumbling the wet & bronze & rosewood needles,
nudging & moving down & into
Some dusks you think you see stained-glass windows
& brackish, inland pools fill the eyes.
Part of the winter forest’s strategy is transparency,
but that makes it feel known.
So the subnivean zone forms—
under-snow rooms, or unconscious zones
in which you feel no hunger
& curl deaf & blind
in apparently meaningless passages.
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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.