Mark DeCarteret

This morning more exodus. I hear only some squawk, the most blessed of murmurs. These professional drivers and their monster trucks. And the same starlings from yesterday, cauldron-black and disfigured, bringing even more wires into question.

O this more or less arc of mostly woefulness. My fingers greasy with promos. These more complete me's to be smudged on the thighs, a substitute for the inarticulate sighing accompanying most actions. That and things to think up for the logbook.

Of what sightings do you speak? Nothing more than the occasional blip. Punctuation worked up from the charred lungs, devils dealt by the tongue. So what if the starlings never figure in any of this. Look! No one is going anywhere. And I have never once lacked for a confidante.