“There are bones in a hotel in New York city drenched in your gasoline, an ugly winter. no matter how sweet, how seductive your summer evenings rear and spring blooms. Bones drunk with propane and angel imprints in tar, trapped in a metal cage as you walk out into existence. the night, the nightshade: a cloak of namelessness. The bones in the heartbreak hotel sing tragedies; do not ask me to sing you tragedies when your stars collapse. Why should I when you only sung me empty hymns. The bones scald hot with your familiarity, burning through bedsheets. A dance made of gunshots on my forehead. Love left us in the night, howling farewell and letting us have our victory ride to my dying days, walk out with my passport stamp on your tongue.