Alamogordo stood quiet, late October we
took our cameras to the southern
quadrants, where the land
had buried itself in scars and
the sun bore itself down like a furnace.
Empty windowframes we peered through as if
into the skull of the buildings, haunted
or full of life in the
moments when we watched them. then we thought
we heard an echo, before
someone could have made it.

as the night and the predators came then
we had retreated to find what was
comfortable; behind us, where the sun fell
like an ember through the sky, and the
moon never knew much of anything