Musette DuBois, was stoned, rising from the bastion of her mahogany bed at twilight's moon—she worked the night shift on cannery row—it was the weekend, and she was free to wander the streets of Baton Rouge—the Rangoon bubbled, with...

You ever think about how many bodies this ol' river's swallowed? Mistaking the moonlight for two frozen plums, now just bones, knitting the banks like stubborn roots, tucking them under, with the current's tongue, licking its teeth. Some slip...