The car sits on the lawn for months and months with the hood open and the windows rolled down, as the grass gets taller and taller and turns yellow again. That’s life in the fallow accident—hearing the straws struck away by air through these parts called The Unawares, seeing nice homes churn past on glimmer supports, sorry along the foxglove path, crunch the black gravel a mountain’s descent makes as the mind in the mouth gums bits of earth together, threads, leaves, hairs, clay, into lots more nice homes involved in a diffuse war as we nod off. A nice summer hailstorm outside the window. The next morning we finally surfaced from the History of Ideas, and swam to shore—“like an inappropriate monster?” (as Chris said in a different context). A grunt lepidopterist for the summer, I wait in the sun at Transit Island. Wearing a pumpkin pie sweater. I am the twilight glitch homecoming workers try to see through.
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