T H E D O PPE LGÄ N G E R’ S N E C RO PO L I S
This is no Halloween. There are twenty-three headstones and twenty-two welcome mats. The idiomap’s triangle declares, You are here! But the acute angles are deceptive, and the half-moon has a way of bending the whole truth. At the tree-lined fringe, Kris Werd loiters in a shadowy tux. He hangs quietly from a mulberry tree, the Spanish moss knotted tight around the smoking hole in his throat. Beneath his polished wingtips, C. Egg finds herself lowered into a hole of freshly pressed flowers, each one plastic and meaningful,
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