Poetics tends to make dead people more dead. It tends to make a funny man sick. So what if this funny man was the mayor of a town in which they burned their dead in sandalwood and other invasive species? Endemic is not the same as native. Hastily arranged verbs spill over the spine.

Practical experience tells us this place is filled with ghosts. One ghost says, “Let’s not be so close.” Her body is invisible yet retains the tonal qualities of a bell.

Another ghost appears on the stage as if heralding some unexpected change. He says, “Even birds can fly.”

Still another ghost folds her hands over yours and says, “What’s worse: fifteen percent, or fifteen percent of fifteen percent?”