For Toronto’s Summer Isle, Heaven Copy speaks, quietly, into their chest, into a collar, behind hair. And it travels, wide, across hills and expanses. Into crannies. All bendy, all covered in a fine dust.
Their voice, or two, barely heard on the wind, muddily. Or, shot through low-hanging clouds. It might be raining, ghostily. Someone might be whistling through their teeth, idly. Someone, oriented out of, and back into, space.
The way of a body in the country. A body watching. The way an old truck blares a warped radio, drives onward, and disappears. The way the desert stretches, crackles, and echoes back. The way the brush-covered hills burn under a dying sun.
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