The road flares burning where the truck swerved off
Just before midnight show the streaks in gravel
And banged-up tailgate slanted in its trough.
Those passing—weary, wondering—slow their travel
On sight of massed police and long enough
To see provisioned brilliance unravel
In such vast darkness as to mask the face
Of one who sobs in some unwonted place.
—James Matthew Wilson
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Equipping the Church for the IVF Era
When Anna, a pianist at her local church, began to show the unmistakable signs of pregnancy, her…
The Fourth Watch
In this episode, James F. Keating joins R. R. Reno on The Editor’s Desk to talk about…
Christianity Is Not a Tool
On today’s episode, writer Kelly Chapman joins Virginia and Germán. According to the discourse, it’s fashionable to…
