The cry of those being eaten by America,

Others pale and soft being stored for later eating

And 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 who dive headfirst into the earth

The pale flesh

Spreading guiltily into new literatures

This is why these poems are so sad

The long dead running over the fields

The mass sinking down

The light in children’s faces fading at six or seven

The world will soon break up into small colonies of the saved