impossible to pick it up. the oily outer coating catches on the kitchen
counter and begs to grow, even where there’s no soil, the ones I did
manage to plant lived for three years—never trees, but the flat leaves
could be rubbed for odor and pleasure, there are ways to live that have
nothing to do with righteousness, only with the urge to persist. I have
no imagination these days, though I see what’s close by to look at: the
palm in my living room is beginning to scatter its spores. I sweep them
up. they escape to farther corners than I can reach. it occurs to me
that the first step in loving someone else is to love something slippery.