[A Hank Williams hangover is early, I guess, the]

A Hank Williams hangover is early, I guess, the cold can of morning, a foot dried of sweat out the back of a truck, a motel parking lot. A diner in some city made of trees, three days spent there with empty bottles for hands, a new record. The motel yet breathes with tape over its mouth. Hank Williams’s hangover is what I can’t heart: I mean hear, what I can’t hear: his rattle of coughing in the worms of light, his knuckles, locked up like the gold in tambourine. This world is weightless—an hour of church bells, no church.