Porch lights of houses—it is 1962 when the woman wearing a pink chemise retrieves the newspaper from her lawn. We settle on news of our day, how video-games have turned deadly.
A book's pages blow from middle to end to beginning. Nothing passes or ends. The usual mixed with the strange is the stuff of dreams, the stuff of waking to distinctions sharp as paper, soft as candles.
Maps suggest the land has no boundaries, countries no borders. Objects of interest move on a grid, dots are life, men and women, cattle, and a stray goat with stone-colored eyes.
The ache of the past connects to the present—how doorbells used to ring and strangers come to call. Olives floated listlessly in drinks as people whispered local scandal in front rooms blue with information.
Surgeons of removal, men enact death's plans. Its subtlety knows no limits; outmanned and outmaneuvered, we practice remembering.