factory of roots overplay a ruined foundation: black cavities yawn underfoot, rotten bricks edged in moss, buttercups strangle up toward a mess of cedar lace and maple boughs.
a hedge of fence and chain link barbs guard the metamorphosis of decay. my wrist, bloody from the scrape of climbing. moaning next door, a neighborhood of cows: the heat of 3pm.
we have been here before, stamped our names into soft clay, carried armfuls of bricks from the wall to the rubble, let them succumb to cedar groves, tree cotton, and the gentle claws of moss
knowing that when we return all depressions of our alphabet will have worn to miniature bowls and labyrinthine canals across the surface of this hard-baked ground, and all will seem subtly green, and soft, and buried.