The old white car puttered on up from the distance into sight, spouting smog from out the muffler's gutterbreath in blankets. A scattered dozen so of mourners leaned on out from deep within their auto's shells parked all along the side of curb, popping buckles out and letting fly their belts on into catacombs in waiting. Old men, tired women, girls with hair all loosed and let to twirling in that breeze of evening. Young bucks, slackjawed leanwall kids with bearded necks and twitchy fingers, navyslacked and yawning and pressed on out and through the growing crowded throng all eyehushed jaundiced sad and dripping sorrow: greyhaired fathers uncles brothers cousins daughters sisters mothers aunts and wives: and all and all the lot all eyehushed sad and all and even if they showed it not they were. The line of gathered started making East and for the church all masked up light in clatterchat and chucklefuck, some shit facade of being just okay the lot of them, and speaking all of holiday in summer sun and billowing of curtains some old season 'round the heads of some old youngsters, and they caught up got and lost and stuck up in those curtains and the youngsters couldn't ever wriggle out. Just stuck there like the ocean when you're under there without a breath in heaving for the air out open, they were there. But loose they came and spilling down along the heads of youngsters all the curtainstream and wrought rod with it, fast and down like hammerfall the rod along their heads and out they screamed and said the old man never let the curtain fall, he said. Never let it fall but kids got twisted up and lost and stuck and only when the hammer falls does freedom come, he said. You'll let those curtains billow up around you and you'll soon be nothing but 'em till the hammer falls. And said and all as firstrain strikes at twilight 'long the crawl, laying soft like pillowdown along the mayearth nowdry and the heads now soon undry in grief, the relic plastered crawl of mourners gathered for the funeral in clatterchat, whispering in ear and ear a hush of rushing dirty evil secrets. The old white car in putter drew up clear and smooth along the curbside, belching quakelike into rest. The man stepped out with lacquered shoes and hair all pomade slick, golden bucklebelt and tailored jeans, some age-old leather vest and hat in hand he walked off toward the church. The underfoot then just a hush of sog in layered strata through the growing sooted muck, he pattered on and slogged up through on to the edge of rolling underhill. He pressed on and through the muddy stuckup back-ground 'till he reached swift with a step the church's sidedoor, just a heave up trio-ed bricksteps and he stuck the key in swiftlock, turning open wide the door and stepping on inside for shelter from the tempest then in brew. Warm inside and like the heat of lucky summer, thought he then. That shelter only's there when one ain't got his eyes out for it. Only there before the storm and in it's eye. That you'd be up there spinning with the dandered brush like pinwheels in the sky, and fly on up past Babel, up past day and evil night. Where eyes won't look. Where eyes that look won't see. Where devil's eyes can't keep they evil sights set right on me. Let the tempest never come.