the shape of the bottle

memorize the
shape of the
glass bottle so
you don’t have
to look at it
or even
take it
out of the
brown paper
bag that the man
handed to you when you
handed over your hard-earned
money. memorize the shape of
the hill behind the graveyard so
you can crash on it without even
worrying about hurting yourself
further, much less getting caught.
and when the sour liquid has been
drained, look at the sky and then
around at the tombstones rising to
meet the grey clouds, the trees that
never knew where they were being
planted: a dead man’s refugee camp,
where sad-eyed girls and men with
black capes come to deposit pennies
or bunches of flowers, or american
flags on the graves of those who died
to serve our country. but you don’t
think about that. you don’t have to
think about anything, but the shape
of the bottle that now lies broken
on the ground beside you.