BLOOD AND FEATHERS
Hands clasped behind their backs, the doctors of moral philosophy used to wander through the park lost in thought. Now they terrorize the swans with their motorized wheelchairs. The man raking the gravel path does his best to reconcile himself to the blood and feathers. He has even developed a theory concerning the chemical basis of evil. In his room at the boardinghouse he keeps a black-framed wedding picture of his parents to which he talks all night about it. But only the boy in the sailor suit, squinting up at the sun as he waits for a friend, ever supposes that the sky can be folded in squares like a map, taken home, and hidden.
The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death