The Image of the Artist is an Abandoned Fortress

Water leaches naturally from old steel, dripping drops onto the desert. Oases bloom in the Mojave beneath the endless power towers dotting the dry land. Pull over after five hours, after nine hours, after twelve. Stretch on a green daub. Watch the sun slink between red mountains. Listen to the sound of nothing: something like throbbing. Something like the first car you've seen today: one wave far away, then close crashing almost against the shore, foam washing over the brittle sand. Twist the thing on your finger. Nestle in the damp grass and thank the water-giving steel. Listen for crickets, for frogs gently croaking hidden in the lush tower garden. Erase lines, erase the metal lattice from the sky. Imagine a landscape of light. Drive four more hours, six, eight. Wait for change. Wait for night, wait for stars. Methods.