In verse ion I'm sand-eyed tired, feet, hands wedged at cage door to stay up just a little longer. Uphill in a '40's Ford 10-year old velveteen dust, peculiar dark of backseat upholstery, curved windows, something wrong, no motor noise, we are not going up, we hear crickets, tire crunch on gravel, mother's face frowns over the seat eyes peering at tiny back window, inch of wheel on gravel, backwards, going backwards bit by bit, mother wedged between clutch pedal and carseat. Don't even breathe. Nine o'clock gun.
Tide turns to is-land.
Evening crows trading news from the roof tops, the location of cats, raccoons, and lagoons of garbage. Humans holing up in their houses, or skittering sideways from bars to supine. Next to inside out under inversion, ridges of seam round armholes and sides. Giddy giddy gout. Wrong side out.