Peter Anderson

We could not conceive of such a thing and yet it came to be. Carrying its own luggage with it, a tray of seedlings from the windowsill of a past life. Flowers of reincarnation blooming but once a century. The desert deep inside us waiting for an opening in the conversation to spread across the landscape and soak up rivers until the fish are left nowhere to spawn. Each day’s count less than the day before. The map’s numbers falling like dandruff. We try to understand but we’re like one-armed backstrokers swimming in circles. Maybe a rise in screen time is yoking us to a downward trend. Maybe our underwear’s too tight, our cycles not monthly enough. We adopt an air of resignation, bury our miscarried explanations and try to look satisfied.