The fish were out of the water, up on the racks, and down on the ground.
They were swimming through grass, chasing tail, biting ass, and slowly disappearing not because of the distance but because of the maggots.
The trashy valley was over the hill they built to hide it, but there were many other hills.
A broken dream house sat on one of them, ripped up like the fish and feeling the wind.
All around it were horses, staring with bottomless eyes and knowing things you will never know.
We floated in the fog, going together and coming apart like the water droplets on the ledge of the pool that I pushed with my fingers into each other — bigger and smaller and bigger and smaller and bigger and bigger and then they go sliding into the water and then they are gone.