Underpinnings: There is no glamor in being glamorless. There’s no reward for being overlooked or overtaken. No contraptions will pull you through coined stash sitting on backs of looted bait. Turn here. Turning there. Instructions are not directions.  Freeform constellations blink full blast. Willowing forests. Sloping curbs. He’s lost in wantings we all want. He still collapses when told that desert jackrabbits can jump farther than he. There are no quiet alcoves. Dead branches keep staring at me. I’m covered in reoccuring stacattos. Those passing by have very little to say. You can follow them. I’m going to see how long I can go without moving. I’m caught in leftover churnings. Grainstacks & sunflowers & towering seeded husks.