He wakes in the night to the sound of grinding teeth
and rain falling on the rusted hood of a dead automobile
with a glove box full of knuckle bones
A breeze creeps through the window
like a thief with a taste for spider venom milked
in the cinnamon patch
He'd been dreaming of fish
No one's tasted fresh water in eight years
but the memory still sits on his tongue
like a guest who won't leave
He returns to sleep with the hope he won't wake
pulled up to his chin the the folds of the blanket
woven from strips of shredded prom dresses
But as always he wakes in the morning
the sun a little hotter, the dust a little drier
crabs crawl across his scorched retinas
he sees only graveyard crosses made of children's bones
He puts a cracked china cup to his lips and tastes blood
A re-envisioning of Tony Rice's classic album "Church Street Blues" from Brooklyn progressive bluegrass quartet Punch Brothers. Bandcamp New & Notable Jan 19, 2022
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