“body is a pot (may it not leak…)”
- Allen Grossman

In ‘dwelling’ there’s a ‘well’. The smaller word has a hydraulic sense: it can mean a welling-up of tear in a duct; of sap from a snapped branch; of pre-cum from the penis tip – as well as a digging-down, the boring of a hole for drawing water. Dwelling is by nature boring, full of mindless chores, the hauling of water with a bucket, the cutting of wood for a fire, the split pine traced with mazes left by insects in the pith, a little riddle brought to light. You pause and bend to study it, something in the scrollwork so like human script. It gives the impression of intelligence – or maybe hints intelligence is also just a blind path gnawed through density, the world a kind of wood. If world is wood, the mind’s a pine beetle, all dwelling-on a form of boring-in, if not with mandible then with chisel and mallet, following world-grain and world-knot, the following a furthering or deepening, essentially a worrying, a touching that quickly turns to too much touch, like this sentence, which starts with an idea, overworks it, makes a sawdust-mess, loses focus. Gets bored. Has to stop. Move on. Dig again.