7.22.2025

This is what happens when I return to Michigan after being gone a while. It's like I flip the handle on a Manoogian, then I hear a noise in the next room and go in there to investigate, discover it's nothing, and forget the faucet's on in the kitchen. I settle in for a long read or a nap, get up and puzzle over why my socks are wet. The landscape of Detroit. There's a specific way things are laid out in post-industrial cities. It's green here. It's like Nam here, says my uncle who worked on supply boats in the Mekong and caught himself a dose of lymphoma from lugging around crates filled with Agent Orange. Allegedly, of course. But what he meant was how jungly it gets in the summer. All these empty lots sprout full biospheres that become sentient and climb up the sides of the red brick three-flats. The plants need somewhere to go. It's a short cycle and I'm sure the plants' genes know that to some degree. In a couple months already they'll be withering as the roots recede into the ground away from the frost. Humans mimic vegetation in this way. Festivals and music everywhere. On my way to the pharmacy I heard what I thought was the percussive thump of a piece of heavy equipment breaking up ground or concrete; the sound resolved and I could tell it wasn't a single report but dozens or hundreds all at once like concentrated hail. Snares, the drum section for a marching band, practicing outside the Public School for the Arts. On a Monday morning in July. My uncle is fine by the way. He beat the lymphoma. He credits Zumba for his health and resilience. By July you can almost forget what winter feels like, but in August already you see a leaf turn yellow and you look for ways to fend it off.