[i.] THE WATERFRONT

The mouths slipped from the faces of their scarecrow heads. In all, an unidentified man counted three, maybe four dozen, at least. The bodies stuffed into the quarry. The corpses kept in the basement of a brackish lake. These heads that had no hum left—these eyes of pitch dark and shallow.

[ii.] THE PARK

Some pretended there in the afternoon, mugging faces and shooting lines into the camera—said they had been listening to the trumpets. Some swore to how they had heard the wail and bawl of an old church bell auguring, just minutes before the confetti fell. One woman claimed she had seen a blind man reading a bus pass. Yet another described a liar, one who had just begun to speak.

[iii.] A PUNDIT NOTES

Each of the figures seemed a miracle—saints in their own ways, but stagnant inside like the sound of a ship run aground for weeks, no one knowing for sure when the silence might finally heave and stall to its end.

[iv.] THE HOUSE ON THE LAKE

Floorboards curled up around their feet, reaching up and around to constrict the bony waists of the young and the grizzled alike. One grandmother of four told reporters how it was as if an eraser were being dragged with a slow and blunting spit—pulled by [her] dead husband’s hand, across the lines our city might have once called its map.

[v.] WHAT THE CONFETTI SAID

this man on the radio / he said the trick was that there / was never a radio at all

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