The ground opened like a jag of lightning. Joe Rinella could almost
get his foot inside. Exposed warrens were empty runways before rain;
the blazed mole dug below his long seam of dead grass, deeper—
near the black snake. Moose Carpacio remembered his military days
at Fort Leavenworth, packed his guitar, and left Missouri’s flinty ground
and Kansas fields of stunted corn for Lake Superior’s spray on cheekbones.
He lit kindling in the stone fireplace, scooched logs on the grate, toasted
to cool night, and pulled his windbreaker closer. At home, the house tried
to let out its breath while Moose remembered his grandfather naked in Alcatraz.
— Maryfrances Wagner