Days of salt of earth of trees and cows. Days ringing the blackest bell, triangular bell, on the day it was said we sat down to eat. Days ministering ropes to holy waters. I see them in. them, thru. The white pads of fluff piled on the wake. For christsake. To have us some lineage. To boil us down to stickable strings. Thinging around in a broken golf cart. Holding the tow, lacing the edge.