I am the king of the rust and the blanket-curtains heavy against cracked glass. I rule the wind, shuffling mail like cards, spilling out
Merced, Autumn Sunsets, crows head west in low sparse flocks, loose groups crossing the sky towards the glow, rays gilding valley oak and beeches
Then we woke in a period of suspension. Of being kept within a violated interior, an erasure in which each of us lived in