(1:06 a.m.) — Andrew Mister
meanwhile in the city known
for shipwrecks, night bleeds
around the cars in the 7-11
parking lot. the snow
stopped falling, though we
can still hear it pouring
out of the cutlass supreme’s
radio. we’ve been in the habit
of counting them dead,
the houses. how dearly,
the night holds the damp.
the twine that holds a thought
suspended above your head
severs the thought. the resolve
to sit in that car all night knowing
the next day is dust on your hands.