On What it Meant. . .
I didn't know I was grateful for such late-autumn bent-up cornfields yellow in the after-harvest sun before the cold plow turns it all over into never. I didn't know I would enter this music that translates the world back into dirt fields that have always called to me as if I were a thing come from the dirt, like a tuber, or like a needful boy. End Lonely days, I believe. End the exiled and unraveling strangeness.
|-from The Unraveling Strangeness|