it’s morning 3:19 the night whimpers from it’s crucifixtion in the sky we the restless on Main paralleled Broadway sister witnesses to the brooding eyes it’s a good time to smother the thoughts of hank william’s weeping moon two birds and a falling star as if the universe dropped and disappeared we shut our eyes feebly make protective signs in the air while following the procession with electromagnetic Tujungas wearing withered gowns weaved of the failed tourniquets that abandoned the Braves and so now here we are dying of the fat of the land