This white-dust road is in for an evil storm today.
The wind seems up to something by the casual way
it whistles by. Here, sixteen miles from anywhere,
a weedy mailbox waits, mounted on an auger,
a spiral blade ripped from a combine harvester.
This hard twist of American DNA,
caduceus-like, has cured some beery boy’s addiction
to knocking down the mailbox in his black S10.
The flag is a red ear against the head’s bright white
and the door a hound dog’s tongue hung out.
The letters of a letter crawl to life and bite,
blackwidowing the hand that reaches in.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Is Britain’s Social Media Ban a Trojan Horse for Censorship?
My mother is fond of saying that children spell love T-I-M-E, by which she means they have…
The Church of Claude
In this episode, First Things senior editor Dan Hitchens joins Virginia and Germán to discuss Magnifica Humanitas.…
The American Covenant’s Answer to AI
Artificial intelligence is testing our commitment to the great moral covenant that binds us together as a…
