Pluto has since made its full rotation. The moon is like the inside of a blood orange, and the stars are so close they seem fake. A dusty blanket of pink fog seems to be pinned over this place and last for miles ahead and behind. Caught in the middle; no parallel road lines; just black earth and rocks that creep up the sides of my boots, wet, despite the dry air—perhaps, (we are heavier, here, now…); bodies float in crystalline ovals, feeding each other fruit, dancing, sleeping, making love. There used to be stocky solar powered homes there and every other driveway cradled a Subaru and bikes laid out like bodies after war on patches of manufactured grass, cut to fit neurotic lawns, and it always smelled like the mist that escaped the first crack of a bucket of crab...Where is that ocean, now? Always, the same song of cicadas versus house crickets; the gentle lull of a garbage can on wheels being pushed down gravel; the soles of shoes massaging concrete sidewalks, back and forth; the man who always left his porch lights on for his dead wife to find. I touch my belly; a tiny foot tries to pierce my thin skin; 2016. All of the planets are where they should be; the rolodex of trains to Philly and Boston and Greenwich and D.C. flips furiously. There are no flying cars, Frank.
