Laton Carter Fog, here, is as though it never weren't, suspended and with no direction. Streetlamps broadcast their geometry, the lines softened by vapor. Whatever activity there was, movements repeated as the mallards across the path skittered and turned over sloughwater, is marked by what's left to do: sheets of insulation up half the school's south wall, the rectangles cut out of it ready for their faces. The air through the hallways and skeletal walls the same air as over the sodden field, same against the bannisters of the apartment complex across the street, where, behind that third story curtain, the tremor under the eye is too little sleep, a nervousness now its own living thing. The book can be certain only of its own contents. On the third floor, fourteenth row back, fourth shelf up, it is an inanimate thing never to know its own touch, fingers' touch pulling it again out and open. Cabin pressure, that it too was there on its way to California about Laton Carter