081413 #worm #roach They walk under where corn fields used to be. They walk under a mud puddle that used to be the swimming hole. They walk under the barn, and down into the hollow, where it's a little warmer. This time they don't have to talk much. Me fingers a packet of raw sugar in his pocket; his piece of the Cafe. Him watches the cobblestones march under his feet. The ghost of Jelse hovers above them, taking bullet after bullet in ectoplasmic defiance. Up there in the dark, the cops clomp off in one direction; down here, Him and Me softshoe it on down the underground hill in the other direction. The interchanging rhythm of their feet speaks of flat mountains, cairns in space, and brilliant snow in every direction.