From a gouge across France
The plough yields bones
Yearnings race to that time
Their relics and buckles come home
An agitated time gone awry
New coffins won’t shake off the loam
I stood and looked out my door
Onto a highway, and a car stopped
And he said, pointing a gun
“Are you—?” saying my name
I said no, but the shot came.
Carry me anywhere dead
We beat on still faces in vain
You must answer the door
The highway sweeps by the step
The question has the right name.