Clouds trickle upward to starscape

to carve the land of dark material

free of all flesh, reins wander

from yielding hands in the amber glaze

of early autumn, posts of stone

surface from gray water

and pulse with salvific blood.

The war of the humanities

on the ballroom floor,

the bombs bursting in air,

the shame of last year

those glories are left behind forever.

Drums patter against the melted shingles

above the gut's deep tank,

the water molecules being sorted,

the aftermath of beautiful particles

being forcelessly torn apart,

and my limbs lifeless,

and my head on fire

let the country hills become

a woman's body,

let the nation

become a woman's body,

let the sound bring home to space

what has been missing from America

and break its void.