I   find  a   group   of   printmakers   out   behind   the
Witness  Expulsion  Program.  Near  a  willowed  field
of  wild  asparagus  &  pencils.   A  safe  distance  from
the   Dept   of   Idolatry.   They   make  me  a  dress of
handbills;   it’s  smudgy  and  leaves  word  residue  on
my  fingertips,  but  I  like  it.  When  I  walk  alongside
the  river,  the  pages  curl up  like  closing  palms.  It’s
transient,     temporary,    a    flutter-dress,    and    this
reminds   me   that   I   want   to   apprentice   with   a
Silhouette  Maker,  but then  I  hear of a group who’ve
hacked  the  discarded  voice  boxes and mark  time by
song  cycle.  Some of them wear  rear-view  mirrors  as
visors.  They  walk  backward  and  insist they  see the
real.