The ravine out past where
Martha cooks is holy ground.
Virgin blood and answered prayers.
The hand of god and his
violent breath. Tire fires and a
corpse shitting maggots.

This town hides the leftovers
like the truth somewhere below
the headlights, it is a form of
loss prevention. The ground is
rank with blood. There is no
street light glare to romanticize
the night, it is enough to no longer
see the greeting cards for the damned.



.