Bleeding like a hanging pig

still wandering these wastes

sometimes forgetting what I’m searching for

everyone says they’re out there

in this bombed-out building

or just beyond that dune

underneath a steaming sewer grate

and sometimes their evidence

can be found in star arrangements

discarded newspaper text lining up to spell locations

absent ringing in the ears, footsteps from behind

and yet I’m still searching

my shirt is crimson

my pants are clay

and my shoes are filling.