Jan 18, 2018
was it the way the glass bent the light that made us want to bite our tongues and press the pedal to the floor? or was it something else – the words written in fog, the fingerprints, the look of the boy on the side of the road? a solemn phantom & still in the rear view & still walking toward us in the blood red break lights. are we not every carving in the tree? is he not calling us back to where the road curves? & for a moment you can’t tell if you’re the neon or the shards, if you’re flying or still just grinding your teeth.