2020-09-20

of whiskey and religion

Memories play backward into old faces stuck in glass. Voices corkscrew out of silo-shaped nights. Tune the radio to a perfect field of static. Everyone who worked the closing shift in the grocery store is dead. Department store mannequins guard after-hours sleep, hiss of rubber as escalators descend into dreams. All my dead friends swim high above the rooftops and pharmacies, the snow-capped sleep.