Peter LaBerge - Hymn for Atlanta lyrics

Quiet, the toaster. Quiet, the scalloped flesh, the bathroom sinks. Saints wander the boy's head like men lost in hallways, like children watching mothers mop violent mornings into nightgowns. The wisdom of Georgia is spread wide across duplex floors—boys white as scarecrows long-bleached and convinced they are men, boys willing to piece together the broken weathervanes of foreclosing farms, maiden gardens. This boy is left with his mother white as fox underbelly, a consolation prize of blessed skin, of rivers and begonias.