I begin the day like any otherday: a decade staring backin the rearview mirrorof the wrecked pickup truck: youstanding so tall you’re alreadyheadless: until I turn aroundthe cornfield blurs into the tornedges of an atlas: pull your handsout from under me to anointthis god-gifted country of yours:mottled bones singingthe anthem of a star-spangled nation:this land granted enoughtime to list its ownpossibilities: atrocitiesa blade of dusk restingon my throat, I bruise: by standingI practice the sacred: & kneelhow the body was builttoward the bottomless insidesof ghosts: the small of my backthe sacrum: they say, the fivedisciples with pocked faces,not your self-inflicted gunshotbut a single entryway: an emptinessfull of faith: rise to me as only youwould after god has leftyou with these entrance wounds& no way out: the purpling fieldthat goes on & on: recognizableas a heartbeat: a century-long orbit around a cageof stained glass: broken, yougather me in your imageof failed flesh: piecing mirrorafter mirror back together throughthe night until no one forgets: onehundred years of this landscapebehind & before uscontinues to stir—even ifthe earth under our knees,under every American sky,had been turning west-ward for centuries.