unspilled rain, sunbleached photographs

where it starts and where it ends

late august, early september.

somewhere in texas, it’s summer. it’s suicide.

twelve weeks rotten: the truth comes out on our darkest night, every god in me singing. / my hometown tragedy tilted off his axis, kerosine dripping from those aching teeth.

the full moon comes and goes, it took six or seven days to pull your body from the lake. / singled out by god to survive, / my mama thinks you’re getting better / (or, you’re becoming too difficult to keep believing in).

one thought: when will this terror wear off? is there anyone else in the audience currently feeling afraid?

look at the headlights calling, the headlights calling. punish yourself. drive the wrong way. mutter unfinished songs as prayer. stagger home.

a decaying harvest of waiting. listening. begging. / asking if this story can be retold from the end. asking if pleasure and purity erases childhood sickness. / give up, he won’t say anything you want to hear. / it’s all over now, / you’re stuck in the middle of everything, / it hasn’t begun yet.

take a look around, this is your hometown.