The Corduroy Mtn. When This Borrowed Car Burns Sean Patrick Hill We'll loiter toothless by the sea. We'll shepherd ourselves and make new languages of tire treads. Of plover prints. Of anxious dogs. We'll remember the black rectangle the gas dripped even when the ice scrapes it loose. Beating flames with a leather hat. Windows sucking in like plastic wrap. We'll look off into corn fields where we slept as kids. By kids I mean teens. By teens I mean not old enough to drink, let alone speak the music of raw bone and muscle. How could we? We were eighteen. The tent was filled with smoke. previous | next Added to The Corduroy Mtn. on November the third in the year two thousand and eight.