I lived once in a burned-out Ford sedan. I knew only the make; its ornament stood, bald and undaunted, on the hood, but its word, the block script of its model, had been pried off by the junkyard hands of a drunk vandal, or perhaps just lost  to dirty weather and the rising hunger of a purifying flame. I knew this as I myself had first been made and thenremade by the raw force of the elements, my name spoken and sung until it was a claim broken and spun like the clear web of a spider hanging from the rearview mirror of a burned-out Ford sedan.