Let me lie here and dream of a better life. Let what beauty there is be lifted up and given to the greater world as I listen to the mouths of termites eating of the earth, their bodies drumming a rhythm in the soil, undaunted in their blindness, by the millions raising a skylined architecture the blood moon must recognize with light. Let me stay here with these birds and listen to their rough songs.
Brian Turner, “Mihrab,” from Here, Bullet
















