Sometimes I stare at existence as deadpan as an infant who isn't crying. Then I lie in a long field, pick one green strand, and know I am and will forever be the only human to give this particular piece of grass any thought. Then it fades, and I care about little save food and reproduction. Death finds it way in, later. How can I not see blackness even if my eyes are no more? I imagine death will be quite similar to January 8th 1256, which I wasn't present for. And that day wasn't so bad, was it?
Joseph Sigurdson is a poet who likes his orange juice with *some* pulp.