by Brandon Shane frame harirak In the hideout scurrying for things to do, as rain hits dirt, trees sway and leaves become leaflets storming the old stone of a city upon a hill, the worms have done their part, but I’m struggling to find a reason to exist, and last summer I saw a stray dog watching cars beside a highway, as the sun swept hope on a six-hour interval like tides in Brittany, or certain blocks in Los Angeles, where two-by-fours strike at the same rate they build. M