WALKING IN THE WOODS by the creek I turn that flat gray rock and feel moisture and moss and smell maybe death, maybe change, and from among all the wriggling fear and idiotic indifference abruptly exposed to daylight and to all my omnis, present and potent, I select the most alien, no, revolting specimens, and, one after another, imagine being it, that sticky slug, that black claw-mouthed beetle, that cigar-colored armor-plated worm gorging ants, and one after another I am they, each one, and live its life for a while.