by Michael Beard Martin Turgoose A loose door in the center of an empty room, the heat signature of a blue jay, unadorned calls. A handful of flowers before it becomes a handful of flowers — give it to you. Evening sky kneels into night and the dry wind rolls out the city, sheeted. You are building up quite an appetite, so much so you can hear soft music playing in the sky. The lizard remains lizardesque. One week ago when the Tennessee River still knew your name, you were. B