when you walk across the soft dirt you are in the wheel tracks. a shipping container exerts no force on your path. the stairs at this point are still wooden, scaffolded in iron to the blue above. ten storeys of stairs in crate-wood against the iron palings and it’s time to empty the plastic bag. nine am before the temperature comes above freezing. eyes hurt without sunnies. vents stacked shine in the earth. can you look at them and not think about the circumference of a body? and what the dead want of us. and what the dying make of their new surroundings. you will stop to pull me back once your own dream is over. the sky’s not empty it’s tensile. the sky’s not empty it’s a pie-crust. the sky’s not empty it’s the skin of all its snakes.