It began with fog and headless homes. We lose sight of star-markers; streetlights burn out. This is a world of crawlspaces, children digging through mulch or gravel. The steppe-streaming sun uncoils, scalelight rasping stone. We root into baked sand for bones, pitch the worst of ourselves into river. I think that if I touch her she'd unfold into cherry blossoms, skin slipping off, hoofbeats in lieu of a pulse. I feel my own composition: apples in my throat, dry-brush ligaments. Horizon peeks from valley's end, blue-eyed. I have seen these hills on the other half of earth, centuries soaked in the land's spine.