Three on the backseat as we drive home from rehearsal

There's snow on the drums

The snare shudders like a cold ghost between my mittens
in the trunk, guitars slide like dead over dead

It's stopped snowing

We think we see foxes

I breathe a canvas on the window to write your name on the landscape

The sky is a grey flint from coast to coast with birds
frozen in

Magic Trees share the dashboard with a Playdoh Jesus

Grapelli and Reinhardt lock horns on the radio

I draw a black skull on my jeans, not thinking, through
to the skin

the headlamps come on at five

I miss you bad

See also:
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