2 thousand 1:  Armory Park, Tucson Arizona. Age: 23 excerpt from a bleak phase of a bleak year After I scrub my car witha small cheap dishsponge I wipe it dry half and hazardly. I rinse the yard off my pink skin and my plastic sandals. I wonder if cacti have souls like trees do. I wonder at the citires of ants that live in this parking lot. They come in like brigades to steal catfood, each time from a new crack in my house. A trumpeting army from Antropolis. After I srub and rinse and dry, I stop. I small wasp divebombs my face, I turn to the sun, and a web of orange leanness holds me to the late afternoon, a harness of the spreading shadows. From then on, I become blurry as I or the night falls over the end of my afternoon and its duplicity.