“There’s no one left to see his hands lifting from the engine bay, dark and gnarled as roots dripping river mud, no one to see how his palms — slabs of callus from scouring the long throats of chimneys, hauling mortar and brick — move in the fabricated light. Thumb-knuckle thick and white as a grub w…”— Edgar Kunz, apmpodcasts.orgTagged: Poetry, The Slowdown, DIesel, Mortar, brick