Bubbles rise from the muck roughly where the radio sunk. We’ll go into town tomorrow and buy a proper ghetto blaster, Obie and me.
Yet when I hold him sleeping in my arms like this, comforts come. It isn’t this grey machine but he who is the lodestone, my supple dowser, a lump of mind. All that openness, the squint eye of the napping infant, taking it all in warily through a lazy, unfocused eye. He pulls the world down with him through the weedy depths of sleep, intertwined like fouled lines.