curses slip from the mouths of old ladies driving slowly down crowded streets, in your town making circles around, little breaths from children sleeping under crescent moons they resonate against flashing yellow lights half in the cold air, empty in a jar-shaped can without this I can, I will these children, breathing deeply, sighs my children, our children, in your town but it is my business, imprints of little teeth on the back of my hand in the woods where the city is raped and at the end of a small road, in my town chalk a circle, build memories for everyone and then stack them up to the sky in the polo field by the freeway and at the end of that same small road, towns lights strewn across a landscape, horizons stacked until the world loses its meaning