in your town, your not town, God is like the dust that cakes your shoes and socks and feet no matter how many times you wash them on Sundays.
he gets caught in your eyelash and keeps your heartbeat in a broken pocket watch filled with cotton
you hear someone calling your name. the pocket watch ticks and you rub the dirt further into your eye.
you do not answer.

the corn in the northern portion of the field has died.
it died yesterday too.
your town does not sell corn.

your friend is the only one not to stare at you when you walk into the diner.
she orders you sweet tea.
it tastes like lemon and salt.
you do not look into your glass when you drink it.
no one does.

your neighbors bake pie and the scent travels down to your house. when you ride your bike down the road, they smile and wave.
they have crooked teeth and glassy eyes.
you don’t like their smiles.
you don’t like them.
you don’t even know them.
you smile and wave back.

on summer nights, all nights, you can hear the sounds of fiddles and tambourines, rustling among willow trees and fireflies.
your dog gives a growl and thumps his tail.
when the moon is out, you fight the urge to follow the sound into the forest.