far from the farmhouse

he rarely went running. he tended more to quiet, to calm, to cunning. to cool. he was warm now. he worked to find and feel the ground, fend off feeling far afool.

he’d bent his bolt to branch-beneath, night grown on wide; the water whispered it would welcome him and hide his hounded head awhile, [. . .]


“listen,” Mutt says, “listen.” her eyes glisten, and don’t find focus. it’s the stundra–it makes her watery, loosens the logicollective locus. what’s connective in her hunkered headbound herding doesn’t weave a well-formed wording–the greys are losing sangfroid. the largest one slaps her; she blinks, tilts her head, groans a long interrogative schwa.

Karl steps forward, [. . .]

he made haste

when we peeled the wallpaper back, we found the old man’s story. he’d written it there, inked in tiny letters, a record of his time as what he called the Quarry. there was little context: no dates, no places, no last names–only tense actions taken, sparse words spoken, the ends of all his lofty aims.

[. . .]

the Greyhounds

they think thin. they expect to win, and are not known for patience. muscle and hustle are among their virtues, but not persistentime; they are at ease in alleys thick with grime, though they keep clean as the dream of tomorrow. they do not lean. they do not borrow. they sign and remember, but each [. . .]