All along it's under the under, below the below, chewing dirt in it's sleep til the wrong rock shakes loose when the wrong step proves too little too late or too much first for second to take. All along from day one it was waiting for us. San Andrean scale; friction in the rails- veils of sparks and beards of bees- beneath the dreams the plates shift and she screams.
Mom puked in her gas mask halfway over the mountain. Felled some leaves; naked trees waving at every passerby. Gray faces under heads shaved with age. Cluttered tongue says a half-life in one fluttering stack of yesterday's paper. Mom was all grip, melted her hands to her face when she covered her eyes.
