Site 7: Photo Stream

An artist I meet at the mahogany table helps abandoned buildings breathe with light. Industrialia. Camera suspicion. I show him a glove made of marigolds, a 24-foot statue of my old neighbor, leather-clad with fringed sleeves in that 70s style. (Roadside America removed his glasses, et voilà—Daniel Boone.) Also, the broken Loblaws where I learned to bike. Even now I feel it was all my fault: cracks in the sidewalk, rocks in my hand, hazmat suits, for sale signs, a city ordinance waving in the breeze. Another artist calls this ruin porn. But I’m from here, I insist. I have a cape. Then wear it when you write.

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