The wordless swathes were lyric to him.
The woman, years and miles between
Her blurry prospect racked that brain
How like sweet time!
How like his bones...
And I can feel them scraping one another.
Making music, against the will of God
No, with it. No, against it.

!

The devil, creeping through the floorboards
Giving chase to peace and sleep
Pulling him down from his right form
Writing confusion into his blood.

Finding himself love again
In every little pebble on the path to the shed
In the grass and the sun
In the smell of the summer
And the simplex formed by his feet and his head.

Oh, what a wretched and beautiful thing it is,
To be alive tonight.