Cold Mexican Beer

A steel bridge buckles into its reflection. Cars burn. Bodies bend, contort. In the sky, god or a well-placed hand wraps itself in a blanket of cloud, letting only beams of waning light out from underneath. And somewhere someone yells across a gap. And somewhere someone is baking with cinnamon, sugar, and butter. And somewhere someone screams genocide to the wind. And somewhere someone is drinking cold Mexican beer or bleeding or eating a nectarine or feeling the sun or taking water in his lungs. And here a heartbreak; here a triumph. Here a tragedy; here a tragedy that hasn’t happened yet. Who knows when it will be that molecules pull from one another until there is no floor at all and we are left to solve the problem of trying to walk without making a sound.