Killspeak

He shrugged at the panic grass at the edge of the parking lot. “It’s to be planted along roadsides to keep the dust from kicking up as cars pass. We’ve engineered it to look a bit nicer, have broader, greener blades.” He looked behind me as he said this, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together at his hips. An engineer and his plans.

Winter returned to Kingston. The blades where white, rising weakly out of the ground. Nighttime in the yacht club across from Ballard park, we looked at his dying grasses. I felt like 1815. That’s why I left him there.