"Howdy, lem," my grandfather said with his eyes closed

Wiping the eastbound dust from his sunburned brow

A life before doubt.



I smell the engine grease and mint the wind is blending

Under the moan of rotting elm in the silo floor.



Down a hill of pine tree quills we made our way

To the bottom and the ferns where thick moss grows

Beside a stream.



Under the rocks are snails and we can fills our pockets

And let them go one by one all day in a brand new place.



You were no ordinary drain on her defenses

And she was no ordinary girl

Oh, Inverted World

If every moment of our lives

Were cradled softly in the hands of some strange and gentle child

I'd not roll my eyes so.