Cracked asphalt holds the heat of July
Speaker poles lean like crosses against sky
I perch on hood where rust has eaten through
Pale wings catch the beam that splits the blue
The sermon hums in twelve-string Rickenbacker
Alto breath beneath the projection cracker
Projector dust floats in the silver stream
Moth wings glow like saints in a fever dream
No feature starts, just static on the screen
We drink the light where no one else has been
Choir robes dissolve in phosphor white
We sing the film through Saturday night
Concession stand collapsed to splintered wood
Popcorn boxes rotting where they stood
The marquee letters spell a title gone
I trace the letters with my wings at dawn
The organ swells from Prophet-6 pads
Hymnals burned by curious lads
Brass stabs cut the night from hidden speakers
Bass lines pulse like hymns from childhood seekers
I fold my wings against the cooling steel
The altar boy in me begins to heal
Syncopated slap bass walks the aisle
Moth dust settles in a holy pile
Projector dust floats in the silver stream
Moth wings glow like saints in a fever dream
No feature starts, just static on the screen
We drink the light where no one else has been
Choir robes dissolve in phosphor white
We sing the film through Saturday night
Choir breath rises from the projector room
Hymnals burned for warmth in eighty-two
Now only moths remember how to sing
We harmonize on broken wing
Gated snare cracks like a communion glass
We sip the light and watch the moments pass
Screen tears flutter in the morning breeze
No credits roll, just static on the keys
I lift away before the sun gets strong
My pale wings carry verses of the song
The drive-in sleeps beneath the waking sky
I leave my dust where holy beams lie
Projector dust floats in the silver stream
Moth
