““she whispers into my truculence and I succumb to that thing called faith that blind old hag who left her brothers and sisters under the overpass she strokes her way into my soul a divining rod slips from the heavens a greasy old senior citizen with stale coffee breath and a proverb for any situation she recounts the transgressions from a lifetime ago with a glassine vision the images move in a circular sway, dashing from light to dark truisms to falsehoods this is a woman, my friend, with whom you can ride the river and gaze at the mountain this is a woman with a heart fired by the very furnace of Hell yet beats with the sonnets of God””
