Daniel Sumrall A White Suit in Memphis To stand in a place quite dead, admire it for its loss. . . you've fallen into forgetting what you're doing mute while placing fingertips on merchandise. Bullets are just as strong as anything you could recommend with hands at bay. Near the river there is always some sort of abandoned road, littered and chapped, and the scent of green, the stench of life. Beneath the dumb neon sag of the same bored, earnest chords the city strikes a note of wanting; everyone here is a guitar, a love they've left behind, a story they'll sing to anyone at any given time. When I left I left wearing white to blind the southern heat, hung from the dash St. Christopher, and I wore black once on the road because there is no way up a river. |