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on Page 97:
... not heard that moving, a hill creeping with dandelions, keeps some nimble. The seabird launches from a cactus, a raft of quills and feathers sliding us downward, always to the earth.
The Cowsills I listen to the Cowsills in Krogers' parking lot. The moon's on the oak behind a beached cart. Harmonies dart between gear shift and back seat. Songs I listened to twenty years ago repeat, stories my aunt told. Dead now, she became red grass tips, a stray melody on a pebble piano, bones between each key, the last discernable notes. ...
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