Sometimes, to make the fruit stand more interesting, I imagine you there, spray-painting “PEACHES” on a bedsheet, the red paint streaking into death metal letters. Do you remember when we dated those women a couple of towns over, past where the highway splits? They were close as sisters, which made us, if not twins, then maybe some superorganism composed of smaller bodies, like Leviathan. This gave us a sense of mission. We used to sit on the roof of your house, drinking Shiner and screaming that the factory off on the horizon was where they built the “heart attack machines.” That wasn’t right. They only made chloroprene or something, chemicals which might explain the colors in the sky, how the sunsets were nearly psychedelic in that part of town. Here, the dust from Noranda Alumina stains everything it touches orange. At night, it seems like there are poltergeist thumps up and down my wall, though, really, I probably just spend too much time alone. I might call you later to kvetch that our nation is becoming a Potemkin Village of glitter and shadow. But there’s also grass to cut, gutters to clean.  The message may never reach you. Sometimes, I like to think about the night we crashed your truck into a railroad signal trying to drive to Austin. You said the bits of windshield in our laps shone like fallen stars. Though really, this was just the sort of three-chords-and-the-truth type thing you were always saying back then. Like “the blood moon embraces the treehouse.” “The smallest birds fall like teeth out of the night” is another good example.