From the recording Slow, the Summer Burned
That thunderstorm at the last resort was more than what it seemed
It swept the sky like a cotton dress and swam the in-betweens
The moon is pressed up against the sky in a paste of bruise and bone
Midnight hymns still smolder in a hearth of field stone
How can a word that said so much leave so much left untold?
Weekends spent like mining lost digging the iron ore
Old grey elms look nothing like they do through broken screens
So hard and unforgiving than the wood of the jackpine trees