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Where is the religious eye? Morning is dark.
Somewhere in Pennslyvania, a tear has left
the youngish, pink ducts, and blood has replaced it.
A schoolhouse was cold. In the wind comes more coldness,
and comes a nightmare, dank at its edges,
dank as grass, smothered under the storm.
Blood, and the mindset of fallen blood
paints the floor boards a strange, misguided color.
It was a denuding of excited, new cells.
Lancaster. The hills. Everything seems born there
under goatmilk skies stretched smoothly out
toward clean homes; curios, too simple for wires,
and breathing like rain in the fields of a broad farm.
It is they who see this, who can grasp a purity,
who believe thoughts are durable as hebrew staffs.
They stamp out memories of mortals, bruised.
There is the penchant to live in the smoke of death -
yet there are the drawn carriages steeped in sound,
carriages and the urges of Emmanuel,
and the plausible hooves teaching the sound;
a brilliance is emitted - there is palpable value.
Standing against the world will not collapse it.
Nor girls, the treasurers of treasure;
when the world enters, on vile days, they exit nobly.
The sun dies - no sense stays the same,
no measure of curls, or ponytails keeps its color.
The stains were firebrick red. Night negates peace.
Lamont Palmer
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