A bit of free verse to address our current situation, which is probably not as good as I think it is. It marshals various lines from Donald Davidson’s poems. As Faulkner said, all of us writers are really only failed poets.
You, Mel Bradford, told
Of remembering who we are.
A time has come
When answers will not wait.
But what can we tell tall sons
Where the living do not fight
And only the dead can ride?
Does that last enchanted white deer
Still come down to drink?
