-It was a fast dream-

there’s a street beyond a granite ledge in another time.

It’s a very short street, very narrow, only two houses stand there,
nearly pressed side to side, shingled in dark wood, rough to the touch.

a meadow across the street sits unto itself,

stiff, sharp-edged, yellow as khaki, no brighter.

It has a name, this street, but the age of rust
and weather has worn it down.

It’s better this way, that the little connector

has no name to be investigated.

Inquiries would not serve it well.

Inquiries will muddle its circumstance.

an inquiry would only serve to soften

the edge of its mystery.

the street is paved in small-stone gravel.

why bother to steamroll tar over such a place.

what’s the need of asphalt to a street like this.

there's a romance drifting in of cats strolling around the interiors
and parakeets peeping and children at play. yes, children growing inside
as if within the warmth of another womb. but, no.

I don't see them.

no animals, no people, no rooftop antennae

to bring the outside world inside with a static reception.

a proof of nothingness: there aren't any clotheslines
running between the houses hooked window to window.
It all looks dry of life.

the innermost planet revolves like this.

I won't go back after the story's end.
there's nothing left to unpack.

there's no longer reason to report a finding.

abandoned houses on Way Street / Quequechan