A man builds a world and the world crumbles around him.  Paint falls in sheets from the wall and every table goes crooked with summer.  We eat peas straight from the can, measureourselves against the door jamb nightly. I spill my stomach into the trashcan each night while my brother catches mice in the field. Places them in mason jars til they shake softly  and quiet. I sneak out at dawn to the calves in the pasture.  Press my ear against their hides to listen to the soft beating. Hunger eating through the floors of my body, one then another, finally opening to wind. My hair goes dark with ghosts.

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We place our hands against the door, and the door yields.  Our hands against the floor, and the moment opens like a mouth.  A half a day south,...

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