They want to be torn into small pieces and scattered in the wind off bridges. They chant, Desire, desire, desire. , between half a snack and a sip of coffee. In their offices, nothing moves of its own accord, the air conditioning sucks oil from the earth, the lights flood James Bay, and the computers never sleep.
Mountain lions prowl the reservoir villages.
The seasons have collapsed. We bring mass murders to the New World and beg for peace as they feed on our horror as mites feed on dust on the floor, in our beds, on our eyelids, everywhere. Thinking they must be right to ignore me, I ran too. I passed a car dealership where a daughter and mother are red in the face from running to the bank and back for money to buy a car after the dealer threatens to sell to someone else in a minute if they don t put down cash. On wakening, I don running gear and run to the Hudson esplanade and north beyond the pavement to the end of a small dirt path.