cannot provide. These riffs are ?clangings,” and Cramer imagines them into a poetic narrative that exults in both aural richness and words’ power to evoke an interior landscape whose strangeness is intimate, unsteady, and stirring.I hear the dinner plates gossipMom collected to a hundred.My friends say get on board,but I'm not bored. Dad's a naplying by the fire. That's whywhen radios broadcast news,news broadcast from radiosgives air to my kinship, Dickey,who says he'd go dead if everI discovered him to them.I took care, then, the last timebedrooms banged, to tape overthe outlets, swipe the printsoff DVDs, weep up the teastains where once was coffee.Not one seep from him since.

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