When they opened/ the tomb of the Chinese terracotta army/ supposedly they were brightly colored/
armored in red and turquoise but only for a moment before the newly introduced oxygen ate away
the paint

The way the old men who live on the plains will talk so casually about drowning surplus kittens/
alongside, when it’s going to snow, and which barbed wire fences need mending

This is the kind of thing/ one would always seek to recapture, don’t you think?
The airlessness,
All those colors, the ghost escaping into the sky

– Nate Maxson