To think of the landscape this way, divided into target, not target. I might look out the window. The squirrels move with a speed I think of as guilty. People shoot deer from their gardens.
What I mean is: the hospital is where plans go awry, where plans are wasted. One plants rows but weeds come in. Bitterness in the mouth, staring at the ceiling. The inked fingertips that were supposed to mean one thing, were declaimed by TVs and newspapers to mean one thing, had instead become a target.