The laughing alphabet looks out from behind orange curtains.
It believes memory is a form, something like a fastidious glass house.
In the empty lot across the cul-de-sac: a coyote, a vole, a third type of animal.
It creeps away from a crow’s carcass and towards the infinite edge of a forest.
A woman clatters redundant strokes onto the mechanical typewriter.
She doesn’t get to pick and choose which inked striker leaves a mark.
Sounds emerge from air’s stillness with the urgency of a held breath.
And above, clouds of pollen billow and fold in the naked air.
The animals, the pollen … they will never cower in the blue surrounding the black earth.