During that last funeral, before the end of funerals, I discovered a dozen tiny holes where the moths did their invisible work in the sleeves of my suit. Like a cancer’s thread, the gold spider holding on, even as the day turns its gloss toward home. One after the next, each owner throws down his …
Having tumbled in the thorns & sobered. Having thumbed the sourcebook for how we imagined the conditioned air, its maiden voyage through the high windows. The film of old Victorian homes succumbing along with the screens of the drive-in, all chopped at their feet. Having stood in that debris & called it an interstate. The …