Bruce Smith I rode the Greyhound watching the twitchy things of the North give way to the sticky, bloodshot things of the South. No ground so burnt there’s not a church where I heard the Reverend amplify, rarefy, and glorify the word so that we were all in some state of sweating July. The ashy black man and the white bail bondsman held each other until they were blue. I heard the Reverend take the hymn of my mama and the whore’s...