In the ruins of the earth twelve hundred saints are biding their time—taking alms from the smoke of gray dawns. The tarantula eats the
Black trees with branches outstretched like tentacles against the ringed glow of the harvest moon. Land and sky blurred a gradient of blue-gray on
Friday dusks, three friends watched a horse fence clip down like dominoes, a ray of bleached barn and brush of vineyards. Wrinkling the map
is the shop on G where you sell your baubled do-rags, huge yellow hoops, leather jackets slumping with time, trading them for new eccentricities: