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The Life of Weeds
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