Roll in from the whistling buoy.

Only because Bazan says that he does, I listen to those three songs from Time (The Revelator) on repeat for a few hours. Tracks 5, 9, and 10, that last one fourteen minutes and forty seconds, my goodness. "Lord, let me die with a hammer in my hand."

Throughout the fall months you talk to a few strangers every couple of weeks named Rob and Barry, and sometimes named Suzanne and Peter--whoever is home, really, during afternoon drop-ins--who for the last stretch have handed cups of sugar, have offered me a way to gain a long-churning simplicity I have yet to sing out, though it's what I've been building.

And, precipitously, I think of grandparents now. Fear can be everywhere, it can be provided for by all things, but not now when, as that one under his "Pigasus" symbol has said, the world is glassed over.