tightsqueeze center songs


if i were cleverer
i might know the motion of the leaves

and soil in winter, where i just see
the forest’s carpet of brown bones,

just the deer and february
birds, them that stay.


but i am not clever,
nor am i good nor ordered, oh,

all i am is luck,


the embodiment of it, luck that can
reject a city only to come back a few years

later and take liberties with the goodness
of folks and drive a day up 29 in dark rain

unworried by money, unworried by the future,
unworried by others, pulling in and out

of tightsqueeze (pittsylvania county, where there
is a food lion) with an inward laugh,

unworried by the damage of my hands and
the damage of my eyes that would

not look on you in pain.


all i am is luck, who could hide from it
in asheville with near strangers,

kneel by the waters of badin
full of tender pity for my own self,

by the brown yadkin nobly decide not to end it all,
a martyr to martyrdom and a prophet too.


we earn so little of what we have;
it hardly seems worth mentioning

unless to comment that what happened
after badin and bethania grief and all that nonsense

felt a lot like hell and looks a lot
like heaven, far away now,

now that i can see it.


all i am is luck,
such that i would see this woods

and think it all a dead and ugly place
ignorant of what is being prepared;

of the hadedas, too,
all the hadedas

in melville.

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