Mandolin in White Wood, Fitting the Feet

    duende surges up, inside, from the soles of the feet

Even at the center of this yard, its sod droughtless

        across an oscillating sprinkler,

    the loam ill-fits

my feet, and though they are the span of bricks,

        upon pacing, they configure

    nothing to define a house against

the sky. There is no sacred crank

        in the throat—what gravel there

    comes from smoking

and the nodes of years spent scraping

        tenor into a microphone.

    Where a flat tire shouldered the band and I

first scratched my voice hoarse

        cursing a fucking nail

    and the rain—there—

                          —there be the tall grass.

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