by F.D. Hudson Muhammad owsama if i were to say how it was, it would be like a cool bite of the asphalt as the moon collapses: that kind of hard-shelled feeling, after all the other words have failed you; a question pressing like a thumbtack on your tongue. except all you can do is erect ladders to the fire, kicking tires until your toes bruise. even as the sky falls you’re there in the backyard, silently begging for a way out. and when it rains the asphalt shines like