The track homes have been held off for now. They are a third through and now sunken plots framed by gravel drives make up the dotted line. They are gray, they are identical. The dark windows straddle an angled entry that appears to me an ominous sneer. A green mountain stops abruptly beyond the field. A perfect orb, an exhausted turtle who’s collapsed at their pier blocks. A bald stripe tears across it’s entire middle. A disturbed patient, dumped in his robe in a mountainous back-alley.
The mosquitoes are dive-bombers. They are the size of small wasps, but their bodies are so thin, like strands of taut silk inspired to sting. They go for the ribs. They are big enough to snatch out of the air. To carry a wiffle bat and pock its surface with bloody splotches and crinkled wax paper wings.
