The land here has been made flat and plain, a place for trains to cross, carrying corn syrup and soybeans to people who don’t know they’re waiting for it, for thin trees to silhouette themselves against sunsets.
Death sits on us bare like the day sits on the hill, like the night sits on the lake. And I guess the men manage their fear of waiting for it by hammering objects into the ground and inventing occupations, and the women push it away by convincing themselves that men know something they don’t—that the work men do holds a truth that is the natural extension of a shelter logic, a logic that begets shelter.
Men split the world. The outside. The inside. And now the outside is as strange and unfamiliar as a dream.
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