thinking about gardens now that my porch dump spider biosphere is thoroughly dormant, not that, but the seussical thickets of brenda and jenny's yards, and wishing i were smaller and able to dwell even more beneath them and without dirt, bugs, phobias, peril... and this installation i stood under friday night being that, like a canopy of money plant and other things to be under: writing under poems, a line misheard from rosmarie's reading saturday at woodland, "i sit under clouds in which rain gathers white," a bit of a line from keith just after, "we use theory to mean it is possible..." and my writing between layers of things ready for flight.