And all those questions are tumbling like weeds and melons in the fields of a former Southern plantation.
The soundtrack from an era that should be claimed by critics as Nostalgic
inspires an emptiness now
An inspiration that is like a deer carcass on one of those 3 am curving roads of yours.
Trading out the Breath of Lovers for the Salt of Sinners.
And you hope to occupy this vacant apartment and build in it a set of memories for new seasons in this era of Restoration
But the house is still haunted
The floor boards stagger,
A whisper hushes through the refrigerator,
Summer’s chill lands in the coffee pot
All Horror is Site Specific
In the thicket you lose track of each other.
Mistakes stacked in a pyre ask for more lighter fluid
Freckles become interchangeable for stars.
Soundtracks in vinyl are tossed across the park like frisbees.
You take the pills labeled DOUBT and CLICHÉ and swallow them before she catches sight of you.