Mandolin in White Wood, Fitting the Feetduende 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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