Of the church across the street with the busted window of the church’s chimney blowing no smoke of the blue sky behind the chimney of the vultures perched there spreading their wings to dry in the day’s heat of the beak that pecks the feathers...
Death, too, is in Arcadia. Outside, Billy labors the push mower over the backyard’s topography, lunar with moles, the false hills that give way to the craters of their homes.
