we drove to the open place that we always come back to. entering the second year of us coming back to it. the low mountains of snow held the head of the shovel over and over.
later, we knelt down low in the alley behind and ran parallel, me dragging the shovel over concrete, through water, her holding out her arm with a tape recorder. our new band. a new band every day. and the sweatshirt at the end of the alleyway we took with us for a while on the way back, climbing the fence and throwing it over the barbed wire to cover the barbed wire. across from where we left the sweatshirt, the broken window, the window we broke more, swinging the shovel at it and at it and at it.
www.we walked back, slipping through the dark, and we were still somewhere in ourselves when we dug a hole in the ground with the shovel and with our hands until we had dug shallow graves to hold the flags we had made in the fall. we folded them and placed them in, folding and placing and burying again, patting everything down and patting and hitting with the shovel against the snow and the dirt and the concrete and the broken windows and our hands.