public space . Wandering wordless through the heat of High Park. High summer. Counting the chipmunks who pause and demand the scrub stand by till their flitty, piggybacked equal signs can think through this math of dogwood, oak-whip, mulch. Children glue mouths to ice cream and chips, punch and kick at the geese, while rug-thick islands of milt-like scum sail the duckpond’s copper stillness – Over-fat, hammerhead carp with predator brains... We can wreck a day on the shoals of ourselves. Cramped, you broke last night and wept at the war, at the ionized, cobalt glow that fish-tanked the air. We’re here to be emptied under the emptying sky, eyes cast outward, trolling for the extraordinary.