Sad mannequins

The dirty phone surrenders cigarettes. Footsteps depressed in the bathwater. Listening hard to the moonlight coming down the wire. She chopped me in the doorway. A steel shaft through the brain. Sad mannequins cleanse themselves in a ditch along the freeway. Fearless unblinking women smashing eggs against our windshields. Rats playing harps from the gutter. A nation of wet gods dress up like strangers, reaching out their hands. The chords resolve themselves into infinity.