1. The worms are boring into the membrane, through the jagged openings that are pocking the skin like a series of tiny deaths, the miraculous resurrection of fungi and mold. You cradle them like an offering, as though you want us to understand the nature of a dilemma, the unpredictability of decay.
2. You are a nest in the rockface, a reed between the lips. You are the floor of caliche, the yellow grasses in the alley feeding on fast food wrappers and plastic #4. They say that this place is a wasteland. They say that this place is a miracle.
3. You are a wolf in the night, a mythological bird without wings, a lion skulking the river basin covered in lime green moss. You are absence of sense and light, the light of the Sonoran, the sensibility of the heart.
4. A shadow in the shape of a dawning. A slight bend of the sun. A stalk made of oranges and a base of dried weeds. The wall is never blank. It huddles beneath the cinder sky, decoding the language of the multiverse.