She set out to walk across the lawn – the tangible thing had reached it first, and wove itself throughout, as though the meshed roots were up rather than down; the shadow of every grass-blade was a cluster, of circuited machine devices, sticky with intricacy. She set her bare foot down, pancake batter simmering onto inky hot grease; drawing her footsteps up, caterpillar treads of outlets peeling off of plugs on spring-loaded wind-up extension cords, or molasses. She walked on nails like the fakirs: every nail full of mouths, every mouth full of teeth as a shark or lamprey, every tooth serrated, jointed, shivering. The lawn a flat panel, the grass a flat sea of hiding places, blinds full so that they cannot conceal the seething overflow in every minute point, the darkness of concentrated coarseness of detail: the skin of her feet clung to it, drank it up, and the hairs on her arm rose. Unseen honeycombs crowded, filled, packed with larvae, which mature, hatch, and crawl when crushed. She drew her foot off for the last time from bristling, climbing stings that had rooted to the marrow in it.
She had crossed the lawn, and sat down on the floor to rub her feet, which were numb and flushed. She ran her fingers through her hair.