Minnow problems.
Never have I seen so many pentagrams.
Visions of the cross are tangible.
Yet the willows bend, fold and cross in unholy manners,
patterns.
My eyes close.
A moment ago they were open and burning.
From the prairie's apathy, the infirm stand strong on the jagged mountain.
Their skin and hard husks weathering the gusts.
Their numbers fall with the every grumble of those wet shiny aberrations.
Miles above, the delta beckons.
Farther below, the road's beginning with its paralyses and warnings of excellence.
Opens wider.
A pile of soil, collected daily.
The farmers rub their square white teeth in confusion.
The universe with nothing beyond. When she thinks of death, she is sad.
There is pride knowing there will be nothing.
During the panel, her words of unobservable importance betray her.
Betrayal found with the ski mask and semiautomatic.
The singularity is denser now. Collapsing as memories of the father echo.
They echo in her breasts.
In the residue that falls onto her panties.
Finding whole helixes without the tools to measure them.
Speaking little of anything.