**(Verse 1)** Past the tenth light pole where the road runs thin, Through the scrub and the pine where the salt sets in, There’s an empty garage where the oil stains dried, And an old iron sled parked away from the tide. It has never seen snow on this northern sand, Just a bedroll laid down by a heavy gray hand. He sleeps on his back with his ribs to the beams, While the gulls settle down in the seam of his dreams. **(Chorus)** Sandy Claws walks sideways when the water comes high, Looking out at the foam with a dull yellow eye. The dog runs the break with a nose like a coal, And the road only runs to the tenth wooden pole. No car in the shed and no name you can hold, Just the shell of a hand and a coat gone to mold. **(Verse 2)** The adults will tell you a chapel fell down, Or the dialect twisted the talk of the town, Or a saint got ground down by the gale and the spray, Till the letters rubbed off and were carried away. They count up the gray fur, the red cloth, the crab, The sideways advance on the cold concrete slab. They make up the math just to sleep through the deep, While the children know better, but talk in their sleep. **(Chorus)** Sandy Claws walks sideways when the water comes high, Looking out at the foam with a dull yellow eye. The dog runs the break with a nose like a coal, And the road only runs to the tenth wooden pole. No car in the shed and no name you can hold, Just the shell of a hand and a coat gone to mold. **(Bridge)** He can’t pinch a coin that’s laid flat on the pine; He sweeps it off sideways to catch on the line. He won't pull a zipper, won't fasten the red, The shirt underneath hasn't changed since the dead. At three in the morning the gravel goes crack, And the laughter is raw as a rip in the back. **(Outro)** Rudy howls once at the wash of the foam. A traveler moving with nowhere called home. Past the ten poles. Past the rusted gate. The tide takes the wheel tracks. He never stays late. --- ### Track 2: "Three-Seventeen" **Style:** Slowcore, sparse post-rock, swelling electric guitar with natural tape flutter, muted kick drum, spoken/sung late-night delivery. **(Verse 1)** Forty clean boxes of ribbon and twine, A room full of tissue that rustled like pine. Every wanting paid out before asking began, Till the meat left outside had gone bad in the pan. So he held in his breath till his temple drums rang, Trying hard to want nothing, to bury the pang. Then the forty-first slid through the dark on the floor, A wind-up tin bird singing under the door. **(Chorus)** A faucet don't choose when the river runs through, You can’t shut the spigot once water finds you. At three-seventeen when the night clerks are gray, The glitter is stuck and won’t wash away. Don't ask for a thing, don't bow down your head, He only leaves weight on the floor by the bed. **(Verse 2)** Up the eighty stone steps of a light on the hill, Sat a jump rope left coiled on a timber-cut sill. Red paint rubbed down flat to the grain of the wood, Colored grit on the handle like meal in the mud. And an old pair of knees made to skip in the dawn, Never thanked, never prayed for, just kept on the lawn. Or a glass canning jar with a rag and a band, A scrap of brown paper in pencil by hand: *Feed.* **(Chorus)** A faucet don't choose when the river runs through, You can’t shut the spigot once water finds you. At three-seventeen when the night clerks are gray, The glitter is stuck and won’t wash away. Don't ask for a thing, don't bow down your head, He only leaves weight on the floor by the bed. **(Bridge)** The bread box has crabs in it down at the store; The window is locked, but he's already ashore. He pays in exact change for cherry soda, And leaves forty ounces of salt on the clay. A thumb that won't turn, a thick shell at the tip, The sound of dry canvas that drags on the strip. **(Outro)** If you thank him out loud, then the rope doesn't turn. If you thank him out loud, then the starter won't burn. Don't say it. Don't say it. Three in the morning. The wet sand is black. He walks up the tideline. He never looks back.
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