drum raze the rain has hickory hands, long and lithe and unmarked by time. this house is a snare drum slick with pencil shavings from all the poems it's pieced together and failed to finish in due course — songs bereft of breath left to scatter in the witless wind. let one thing strike the other, and hear the music the necessary violence of their meeting makes. 250725 what's it to you? who go blather from