3/17/02
Probably France

The chiseled path leads us through the pass
To the home of other poems and other work
Sheep dot the landscape like patches of acne
Clinging to the shoulders of hills, grazing without fences

Upward, towards the ring, the smell of waste and death clings
To the fine red sand in the center
Phantom bells from behind the wall mark
the condemned existence
Ghostly cowbells morning quietly

They do not know the sound of a distorted guitar
They do not know the death that awaits them
They will never feel the massive hook in the back room
But they will feel much, much more.