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
You are made in a darkness that warms and rustles, and settles, folded under the dusk-sound of cicadas singing as softly as a woman
We’ve been filming underground for weeks. Like God, I’ve gone south. Down here in these tunnels & walls there is seldom any wind, but
white ice white sky white hills and Jake
slurring on about all the bullets
that have entered our lives