who proliferate among plastic green plants. I think of looking at the nebula in Orion with binoculars as long as my arm. I fantasize about opening a country museum in a forgotten home,
half outsider art, half a room of magnified protozoa, rotifers spinning, paramecia cilliating. I imagine warm April Saturdays with a plastic box of Canadian crawlers at the Park Hill Prairie, where the sunfish bite without special urging, and are replaced in the pond hardly the worse for the experience. I dream of auctioning books on ebay, checks payable to the local Friends of the Library. I see myself hiking the Verdugo Mountains once again, amid morning fog, watching lizards scurry, watching
spikes of agave (my lord's one true candle) bloom.
