Prairie Rose

There are no casual bullets in the desert. The only signs of life, signs of manufacture. This scrapwood drawing instrument is seen from all angles, a catchpole splint in urban camouflage. Almost it leaves no shadow, does not call on light to make any decisions whatever. But where is incendiary evidence of an aim, the smoking gun of the camera? And what is the difference between pure and applied garbage? The one fails even to rein in visible surface debris, the other becomes tethering-post for an entire state. With or without suction, the extended synonymy of light and power is terminated here, in a word that jams in the breech, in a bud that will not blow.