"howdy, lem," my grandfather said with his eyes closed   wiping the eastbound dust from his sunburned brow   a life before doubt.      i smell the engine grease and mint the wind is blending   under the moan of rotting elm in the silo floor.      down a hill of pine tree quills we made our way   to the bottom and the ferns where thick moss grows   beside a stream.      under the rocks are snails and we can fills our pockets   and let them go one by one all day in a brand new place.      you were no ordinary drain on her defenses   and she was no ordinary girl   Oh, Inverted World   if every moment of our lives   were cradled softly in the hands of some strange and gentle child   i'd not roll my eyes so.