Forget the unreal long vocal melodies and their impressive harmony ideas, and where these adventurous lines force the chord sequences to go. Downplay the catchy, creative drum triplets bouncing perpetuity under the jaunty mix.

It's the lyrical command that is so reassuring:

"I smell the engine grease and mint the wind is blending
Under the moan of rotting elm in the silo floor"

"Down a hill of pine tree quills we made our way
To the bottom and the ferns where thick moss grows
Beside a stream"

"If every moment of our lives
Were cradled softly
In the hands of some strange and gentle child
I'd not roll my eyes so"

These focused, economical, complete sequences of images and concept constructions don't just fall out onto the notebook after one go-around. These are verbal bonsai, shaped to utter potency.

The fact that they are sung, not just idle words on a page, shows me what poetry has evolved into. But no awards exist to recognize them. No National Book Award comes knocking.