Postcard

Here is like nowhere: the grass gleams. Here is how it
could be everywhere: voices soar, weaving into each other,
you don’t need to put your hands up in defense.
From time to time the rain falls upwards and you’re flying, head down, 
into fields of clouds like before when you were ruled by the great mullein.
Slowly, with a crack, the snail shell breaks—
you don’t need it anymore. Here is like no other place: the maple tree
has grown, have you settled in its boughs like a beetle or
like light. Do you still have a phone or are you at home
using the telegraph services in its roots? Ants tap out
messages on the wood, mycelia pass on stories,
an array of tales full of newfound characters. Here is how it
could be if your ribs weren’t bound shut—
is this still your number?

Instructions

Betray the privets
be the underling of the last elm trees
give the traffic lights instructions
speculate over which world
dwells beneath the world
create an encyclopedia
when your pupils dilate
unravel doctrines like
stubborn shrubs until everything below
begins to glow
become like the grayling
let’s become a riverbend
or the marking
for floodwaters