A coffin that wears the face of a child, a book written inside the guts of a crow, a beast trudging forward, holding a flower, a stone breathing inside the lungs of a madman. This is it. This is the twentieth century.
To the country dug into our lives like a grave, to the country etherized, and killed, a sun rises from our paralyzed history into our millennial sleep.
A sun without a prayer that kills the sand’s longevity, and the locusts and time bursting out of the hills, and time drying out on the hills like fungus.
A sun that loves maiming and murder, that rises from there, behind that bridge...