Slow mottled gray skies, the empty plains
somewhere in the blown out corridor from
Houston to Galveston. Highway and plane
noise, far enough for privacy but frisson-
near enough for wanderers to run, run
the risk of observation, forced sight:
so much more than the dead camera, glum
in its facile adsorption of light.
An old abandoned pool languishing right
behind an encroached upon foundation,
obscenely, a chimney still stands, a blight
within a blight within a blight within station-
ary air. He mugs against the gray sky
and falls into shit for the camera’s eye.