I imagine He runs The thick black dye through thinning hair, Squeezes some hip band’s t-shirt on, And finds himself inside his phone. In his picture, he's always 20, In a handsome, tragic crowd, now over the hill. Photos of fishing, Sunday dinners And babies crawl past. He's the only one to keep it real.

She says They arrived From New Haven early that morning. She'd assured her of what to expect In clipped, unplaceable tones, so refined, so correct. She waved her hand across the malls and interstates, All so clean and bright and young, But that fresh-painted old sign shouting, "GO TO CHURCH OR THE DEVIL WILL GET YOU," Locked up her jaw, And steeled her tongue.

I was spinning in the static when I heard God. I was spinning in the static when I heard God. I’m fairly certain I was spinning in the static the first time I heard God.

I heard God. I heard God.

It could’ve been The patio fans or the fiberglass fountain, The lowing hum of passing donks, The wash of Southside’s children, night-loud and youth-drunk. I croaked as I reached for his lighter. It forced its way into my mouth Through pillars of smoke, spilling waters. (“if you want to live, tell the truth.”) I parted my lips, And it washed out.

I was spinning in the static when I heard God. I was spinning in the static when I heard God. I’m fairly certain I was spinning in the static the first time I heard God.

I heard God. I heard God.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I just don’t know.