“Where in fall they burn the dirt of Robert Frost’s own grave.
Where they call his ashes dragon and sift through them for teeth.
Where smoke is the only produce of the factories.
Where the man whose jawbone throbs must punch himself to sleep.
Where dawn’s the sun hung above a field of blood-wet greens.
Where the word blunt is just as violent as it seems.
Where grammar is the mutilated cousin of the breeze.
Read the rest of the poem at Tinderbox.