by Sam Thayn
Missile Man woke up this morning with a blankety-blank for a face. He dreams of you and he dreams of me and so we are never going to see each other again. When he sees us standing outside, he makes it cold enough to change our faces into angles, into corners that collect memories like dust. In other words, a field surrounding a well surrounding a cloud of bats. Certainty is a balloon just leaving your hand.
