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65 Container Garden Talk stops in the self-conscious elevator. The space is cramped and all the colors dim referrals to oil, coal, steel—alloys of growth and decay, drilled out and burned against death into death. Everyone’s mute, gazing down at their charcoal cuffs and tongueless shoes. The prairie’s gold robes, the sky’s azure eye, sunlight scratching the lake’s wrinkled hide, have all been dismissed as childish, too loud for this palette of smog. A drone and the doors slide open to the rooftop of the future, which is now. A hundred specimens of grass kept separate in steel planters. Grass that once was grass and now is any caged thing. Once, a fish lent me her circular jaw and I wore it as a crown, staring out from a diadem of teeth. I lifted it this morning from the tides of sleep, brushed it off and cleared the weeds to recall a current of beings who lived, died, were eaten and ate with one mind. ...

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