Far away, in America
like the desert never really
deserted us and promises trembled
in groundswells of dust and ravishment –
anger. And we’re going home.
Covenental ardor. And we’re tethered now
to an arkful of pebbles, and judged for hips
and roundness of breasts, stream of saliva
in which we never stop coming.
Take the lid off the sky, God.
This is, this is, the golden land.
So far, in America, and where did we get
such deathlessness? Trim the ends
off of endings and infinity unfolds –
what magic? What drought
brings this on? What daylight rips away
the ease of night in my eyes?
What words incant themselves
to restore it? And then, such softness –
Blow your horn, Reaper Man.
The fields turn themselves.
Far away in America
we dig ourselves six feet under
six feet of ourselves, all the way through
until black night
pours in, like water,
like God and the land leaks
we’re coming home.