There’s a child in a ditch by the side of the road. She’s the source of every drop of blood. Shadows, knives, machetes——angels sharpening the horns of beasts you’ll never see. Over the long, dazzling fields they come: one small piece of time, chained to the next, howling and deep. They stomp and they spit. You belong to them.
The first poem of section I of my book Holy Land
(That feels like a million years ago)(this poem was first published in Poemeleon)