Composed of wire mesh recycled from an 8x4x4 foot cage built for the flying squirrel given to my son by my ex-wife’s new boyfriend, and fastened with wire from a bundle bought to conjoin the ten foot-lengths of rebar rusting parallel in a foot and a half deep trench in the blackberry bush dirt of the family farm that are the aborted remains of the foundation of a log cabin I was building until Katherine moved down from Athens to join me: mesh recently cut in half to make two bottomless baskets for oak and cherry leaves, egg-shell halves, pounds and pounds of espresso grounds, lettuce and cabbage butts, and meatless pork bones are contained by the virtual boundary far more open than closed. More and less than a microecosystem, it is a three foot chicken-wire bounded pile in perpetual birth, growth, transformation and decay.
The roaches scurry and glide out of the permeableness when I dump the potliquor from the greens grown in neatlike rows in the nearly adjacent garden, reclaimed from grass seeded by the preceding occupant of the ancient by American standards Victorian house that was built when the railroad came to town after the Civil War. You can hear the living noise of the compost pile from eleven feet away. It doesn’t sound like breathing. I reach down and finger the decay, looking for dinner. I find a maggot hanging out in the otherwise empty shell of a former chicken egg, waiting, I suppose, to transition. I don’t think he knows what’s going on. The larva is too big. But a neighboring German cockroach flies up and onto my shirt, about three minutes prior to transitioning into a gecko I found in a classroom the other day, but now hanging upside down on the uppermost of three four-inch pecan sticks cleanly cut for apocalypse tender in the glass cage that once held Mouse A Tung, who has since passed.
The Plane of immanence
transcends the symbolic boundary of the body of the composting and extends in one direction onto the back porch where I used to pee occasionally into the jug and then pour on the compost and the muscadine growing up the chain link fence intended to keep the prior owner’s dogs from biting children that I poached from the forest. But recently I pour it onto the two banana trees Kat got off of the back of a truck and the sugar cane buried in the ground that will one day grow into a living boundary near the fence opposite the railroad that splits the town into identifiable halves, which sits one of the furry gray pecan tree servant farmer apprentices that are born from the tree and then go out to bury the fallen pecans. I wonder how the tree educates them regarding which nuts to plug directly into the ground and which ones to first eat.