When I was the age of three in the sultry heat the weeds were blos-
soming and I looked off to the east. Cut from stone, my hand
strained for the wall. Long ridges of corrugated steel shot past,
moving south to north. And there stood a man upon whom the sun
had descended. Later my hand grew fluent of speech, and ap-
proached me, quiet and unpretending, laid out on the earth to dry.
Copyright © William Fuller
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.