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.