and yet we’re still forgiven

see what we have asked of this land:
juicing zea jabbing through
chapped flats

see what we have asked of her soldiers:
contentment,
submerged alone in nuggets of 
petrified human safetyglass

shower of obliterated abstracts;
white like love,
but no shards large enough to make out a face

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.