“Listen, Al,” he says, “Thought you might drive me out to that memorial down 63 and tie me up on one of them crosses they got. Overlooking the highway.”
For reasons I still don’t know, Mrs. Lawson took a liking to me when I was around thirteen.
The Light around Trees in the Morning (and other poems)
Importance ebbs in time, keeping its own
mystery, and we’re left on our knees,