The jumpers wake us after landing, laughing & packing their parachutes into tight bundles in the sloping field outside our window. So we turn
Night crawlers separate the soil & my fingers follow, snaring & exhuming, hooking; still alive— though not in any sense we’d recognize apart perhaps
I clear the Grand Bar, the sun a burnished disk above the gaudy gambling town of Metropolis. A lone paddlefish, like an ICBM, launches
What’s it like: to escape, to phase through walls in smokin’ black & gold but not splatter yourself small? I’ve tried to ghost. Sucked