[A Hank Williams Hangover is Early, I Guess, The]
A Hank Williams hangover is early, I guess,
the cold can of morning, a foot dried of sweat out
the back of a truck, a motel parking lot. A diner in
some city made of trees, three days spent there with
empty bottles for hands, a new record. The motel
yet breathes with tape over its mouth. Hank
Williams’s hangover is what I can’t heart: I mean
hear, what I can’t hear: his rattle of coughing in the
worms of light, his knuckles, locked up like the
gold in tambourine. This world is weightless—an
hour of church bells, no church.
the cold can of morning, a foot dried of sweat out
the back of a truck, a motel parking lot. A diner in
some city made of trees, three days spent there with
empty bottles for hands, a new record. The motel
yet breathes with tape over its mouth. Hank
Williams’s hangover is what I can’t heart: I mean
hear, what I can’t hear: his rattle of coughing in the
worms of light, his knuckles, locked up like the
gold in tambourine. This world is weightless—an
hour of church bells, no church.
This poem has been republished with permission of the author.
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