A heavy, fog-saturated thread droops from my new car to the one I’ve left sitting this past month.
from a podcast on the Donner Party: terminal burrowing.
And even after the rains, the flood, they came in hordes, sobbing droning nets, gray whining veils against our faces, ravenous, piercing, vectoring away our heavy tainted blood . . .
The white city trucks patrolling the streets, releasing their poison mist . . .
[Houston: the burning years]