Little postcards

I walked the channels where taggers with spraypaint cans had practiced.

on past where the walls stopped.

just trees and the flow of the creek.

a dead possum in some caught-up brush, mouth frozen open in a silent yawning scream.

quiet and still, yet I saw motion.

the eye sockets looked like television static.

I drew forward and saw the static was a maggot orgy.

death leaves little postcards.