Maria Porges, ‘Shortest Story 38’, 2016, Tayloe Piggott Gallery

The same six shapes, crowded together, still line the side of the peeling corner house: a cube, two spheres, and strange, irregular polygons, made up of carefully barbered twigs and leaves. Walking the blocks at night, I count the yards where this kind of topiary grows. Fewer every year, as the houses turn over; couples with babies rip out their lawns, letting shrubs return to their natural state-- whatever that means, in a place where almost everything that grows in the ground came from somewhere else.

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