"Dead farmers praise millennia dust"
Andrew Grace

Dead farmers praise millennia dust and the white blood of weeds. Someone’s dead daughter praises in great sheets across the flimsy shields of ginko. The dead lovers press black hands all over our faces, but come up short of praise. We are unredemptive to them, as are their pasts. The dead pilgrims, lost in blue pines, have stopped praising and forgotten how. They step from us and are not missed.


                                                                                       [from Sancta]