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63 the roofers listen to heart’s “crazy on you” as they work compression-stapling gravel shingles to angled beams to keep the coming rains out (Thanks, I rather liked the syllable-at-a-time conversation the leak was having with the bucket)—late November’s agate-light crazing on the worn steel of belt-hooked hammers, honed points of teeth-held nails. One face hums falsetto through asbestos grit, “Wild man’s world is cryin’ in pain, what you gonna do when everybody’s insane,” and free hands air-pick synthesized guitar, notes vaulting over the peak onto the coveralled men like warm wind. Like the last of it. Is this not the work of the one who sent us? My work is wonder, which has for too long seemed a distant season. But it’s winter now: Is this hymn— “So afraid of one who’s so afraid of you / What else you gonna do / Let me go crazy on you”—not in Thy book? I would never have looked for it there, assuming what moved me moved you, knowing little of cathedrals before today. ...

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