When it happens, decaying places are crawled into like shrunken sweaters — snakeskins;

the constrictor tightens a sigh of pines; the constricted replies in signs; it has left behind its aspens.

Dwellings are arrayed like the crouching shadows made by sitting under several suns; as you move, their dimensions change, and you are forced to wonder how you fit there in the first place.

Those that remain grow their hair and nails to lengthy psalms of passing, interred in mosses that have been drowning for as many years as you’ve been alive.