Sometimes, in private—another room at least,
another building all the better—you can bask
in the balm and rage of it, you can as a dog does
roll in it like a dead fish on the grass
In this long poem about the present disfunction of American society, Robert Wrigley ‘tells all the truth, but makes it sing.’
She wandered to him
through a crowd of thousands
before an outdoor concert by the Grateful Dead.
She said to him, Oh, Jack, what have they done?
That time’s lost now, when a stone could hurt,
when a feather missed its wing,
when sky kissed clouds and grass kissed dirt
and nothing thought itself just a thing.
they rise and form their three- or four-bird patrols
leaving the haunted campus behind,
until the priest raven perches alone and calls,
in search of the people none of them can find.
Can they tell we are different, the deer?
Tornillo, Texas It must be assumed that the caretakers— if that’s what they are called and not guards— are kind. If not parents then parental in appropriately incarcerative ways. … Continue reading →