from Blackwater Quartet, selection 17

Witness
 
Through dust
twisting upwards in heated columns, by the salt lake a rider
…from the centre of this desperation
O Lord…. war trash of painted shields,
discarded iron weapons, a red tunic
caught in ground thorn
 
half-eaten ghosts leaning heavily against the sun
 
on a day
you are encouraged to remember
 
now every detail called into evidence—
this version of the future,
and the vowels that will not gather to make a name,
and three days of dust, a mouth, this calling to something
just beyond.