Pale Paint, Spreading Cracks

Outside this long-abandoned house in the yellow, whipping Summer air, grew fields of cattle corn. Serrated hands on long stalks raked wispy clouds into rows. In the fields, through the stiff leaves, I could sometimes feel mist from distant sprinklers.

The corn grew inside too, printed on the peeling structure like a daguerreotype. In the breezy interior of a building without windows or doors, I was not surprised to find old spirits flitting through and life taking hold. This corn didn't grow a healthy green like outdoors – instead, it was yellow and breathed from some white gassy fog.

There are still places where souls collect, where residue of past lifetimes clings to surfaces like greasy dust. In the empty hallways, and in the spaces under the stairs, things still grow.