p l u m i s n o b o d y , t o o .

  I was under a bridge, feeling nostalgic, but the stars reminded me that the lowest form of conversation is, “remember when”. Leaves were applauding themselves in the fog. An indomitably vermilion showcase of the fleeting. If your revelations are only second best, the heavens will call you out. I thought it was a busy night, but everyone seemed to have gone away, everyone except the barley harvester from Milwaukee, whose mouth had not gone dry. We spoke of what had been done too well; the absence of disorder in what we say, in what we think, proves a shallow grave to leave behind. A damn mute of character. He told me that his blue shed was covered with withering grapevines, then mouth-missled Grizzly into the gravel. I noticed that his saliva was webbed with blood, but I didn’t point it out. It was a sign of shadow-teeth, grazing around an indeterminate health. As fickley spread as we are on these frosted grounds, we are not dull. But he knows he is not needed. I know I am not nee...