The denizens had died weeks earlier. Of traps that snapped vertebrae. They lay with eyes like blackberry grains,. Serves yous right for poaching potatoes. And shitting in the grocery basket,. Bag them up and bin them,. But opening the drawer was sadder,. The mess of paper, leaves, string,.

Art may be nothing more than the invention of cadence, a reasoning of chaos. It will use anything, just anything, to loop itself around us, and around us again, and around us once more till it finds its way in. Everything has changed, except this sound the soil beneath my feet. I could close my eyes and still know I was back in the desert. Alone or with friends, m.