object permanence: queer death i troweled loam last summer for this,  a pine sapling, loitered with creeping charlie, door- knobs of little cabbages. pink geranium hustled by bittercress, seeds puckered onto my wrists  like a rash of bullet casings. what’s left is wind.  if i don’t claw the earth  from the earth, more & more  genitals return. wild turkey thrash  at the mulch regardless of the silver  tongue of bird tape. most houses build around  their canopies. in a decade,