Listen to the highway for road-kill
saints. My heart reminds me of bootlegger dogma. A boy

comes out like a cloud--a dragon, a bottle of fire, a horse without
eyes. He's out of the gate, he's walking Lordy, Lordy

through a leper field. The rain warbles like a preacher. The sun
gives up its dead. Whiskey runs

when whiskey is chased. I am chased.
I am haunted nightly by whiskey.