by Daniel Brennan Nathan Trampe Not as in the planets are aligned, but as in summer is picking our flesh from its teeth. Do not underestimate a dog with a bone to pick: I take my time in these rivers of men. On the corner of my block, the heat of lush dead things. So many beautiful, but also dead things. I’ve grown impatient with the morning light. Selfish, the way it unravels across the country in equal weight; doesn’t it know that I am a creature of relentless hunger? My co