The cry of those being eaten by America.
Others pale and soft being stored for later eating.
What of Jefferson
Who saw hope in new oats?
The wild houses go on
With long hair growing from between their toes.
The feet at night get up
And run down the long white roads by themselves.
Dams reverse themselves and want to go stand alone in the desert.
Ministers dive headfirst into the earth:
And the pale flesh
Spreads guility into new literatures.
That is why these poems are so sad:
The long dead running over the fields,
The mass sinking down,
The light in children’s face at six or seven.
The world will soon break up into small colonies of the saved.
from The Insanity of Empire