to grocery stores to listen to the sound of people while you’d wait in the queue. When you lose someone to the open breast of earth, your death inches forward; death is a singular and multiplying component of life. The moment you’re captured as a jpeg you disappear from the living scene to a picturescape. The wind on a whim, whiff of chicory from your coffee, you consume films, hoard books, hang your arms over the bed, the sun lifts the sky up, you draw blinds and dream of a dragonfly getting bigger and closer until you squeeze your eyes like a lemon slice, blacken the visual of the fly with your quilt and wake up. If you miss someone, you send them tomatoes. You look for heirloom varieties: white wonder, brandywine, evergreen, black cherry, marvel stripe hand pruned, all colors of an engulfed sun. A sunset is a recurring death. You visit the graveyard without reason and with tomato stalks when the sun makes thinner lines on the horizon. Isn’t planting stalks and seeds a kind of burial? You think of hill farms and orchards in Brooklyn, a crowded vegetation. You go to parks to listen to people, sitting a bench apart and enjoy looking at a dog eating tulips.