"Go to A Place Of Peace," Mrs. Jones Says, "What Do You See?" 

An arrowhead in an envelope, 

string, 

orange flags, 

Chiclets on the ground, 

grace exploited 

but still around.

Your bright beersweet cheek in the black morning, 

checking the cab of the truck 

before you go into the field.

At least we still talk. 

At least classic rock and rap 

still bleed into your phoneline 

in all-knowing tones of voices.

At least there are still men.

Thanks for men.