They were born in an industrial zone, former bog-land, where the sand is stained red from all the iron in the air.
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Graffiti on the defunct valve house says FREE THE RIVER. But the river’s not a river; it’s a creek. And water is
They use a metal spatula to flay a palm-sized swatch of moss from a stump in the backyard. They bring it into
Just them and the doe and a wrecked two-door truck, the metal and her body braided. They are digging bloody honey-suckle at
bells’ first toll after prayers then the tolling space hollowed a spark of grease against seasoned cast iron it tolled of dailiness
pulling into the mouth of Big Rush Run off Route 7, heading north. Hillside exposed like rockbone — a dirt path carved
Because nothing else can contain it: let the paint peel from the elementary school and the cicadas multiply then divide, their bodies
Without knowing, we go looking for something not there. Mushroom hunting in the boroughs under the trees, in leaf & lichen dropped
the roadkill strung on the main drag double as royal flush when the vultures join it becomes a catholic mass the frogs are
Fog, cold-pressed, comes across the fields. This early, the fog spreads itself thick, sloping into the shape of a fear without antecedent.