If One of Us Should Fall

When We Get There We Are Gone

21 when we Get there we are GOne We can only sing razorblades over the brim of Nashville. Can only permit the fiddle to scrape against something familiar in our blood, to rise all ghosts to the surface, and call our names from the hushed canebrake beyond the gas station’s sad halo of light. Some places need to be traveled through. We know that language won’t survive past Ohio. That we will fall fast and out of time. The fracture will be exquisite. Soy fields and early frost whipping by is what we have. A few hours, and the urge to punch it down to the floorboards, to let those horses out. These gorgeous miles raced alongside—all of us, pretending to dream. ...