blanketed raze it takes three hours to deliver a few pieces of drywall: five minutes for the stiff arms of a truck to transfer pallets of plaster and paper from cargo box to sparse grass, and one hundred and seventy-five more for the men manipulating the machine to shoot the shit while the engine idles and stinks up the swollen morning. you learn this while losing the last of your dreams to a choir of untrained voices trembling and tripping over one another. the leaves that slept for so long under snow are free to roam now, parched and arched as their bodies have grown. when the day has found its footing, a child will shout to someone who's leaving, "i love you, i love you, i love you," until the words they haven't mastered shed their meaning and become just another bit of birdsong blanketed by wind. 250311 what's it to you? who go blather from