It’s always a little strange to hear a dead man sing, as if you’re a medium communing with the past. But this is particularly weird, listening to this dead man inform me about the end of the world.
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Coal Creek Litany (and other poems)
If moonless night, if cuttlefish ink, if the deepest caves of my body, if shadow/
were a stone that burns, if I felt cannel from a drift on Windrock Mountain,/
carbon dust pricking the old man’s face blue,