Letter to Gabriel Written in the Margins of Murder Ballads
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Jake gone eight months, even the honeysuckle estranges, pleats the afternoon. Everything is unfinished, momentary. It’s not anyone’s fault, I know. We’re all strangers to the middle of the noise. On Live at Birdland, Coltrane’s Alabama drops the snare by the church parking lot at 2:42. That’s where the ghosts are, waiting with the floor tom, a tousled mess of glyph and syllable. Child of gravity, stranger to the ground. Come down and help me rise.
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