by C. Dylan Bassett
How often now that vague ache lingers
the way vultures hunch over a mulch of meat.
We drive home in full dark of it, hurling
towards absence: A desert, a plain,
an old photo stirring all the things we almost see—
proof of what we remember: stars, shadows,
glimpses of light. Meanwhile, we groan
the loss of what whatever has come and gone
of our common country.
