1977 Lexington, KentuckyBy Susan Fox
The Word is come,riding with the sons of thunder;past the hills of crystal morning,it flashes to the sea.
The Word is fire,
spoken in the sunrise;it burns the living maliceof an old discarded flesh.
It turns the ratsfrom the gutter,bringing forth a clean Windagainst an old sloth.Call the Wind.It comes,struggles from a mouthand repeats itselfin many languages.The beggars of the earthare deaf to thunder;they sit with the fat ratsof the mighty gutterand burn incense at their local altar.We are unclean.Go to the church and pray:Weep for the dead liesof our nations.Togetherwe offer our hands;In our lives,the Word is finally spoken.