It’s as if I were lying down in the colonnade, in the Lincoln Memorial, in the forest where every tree is so, in the field where the dragon’s teeth were, where we sowed the wind, Mr. President.
And I was asleep, the fluids seeping out of the corners of my mouth and my eyes, my guts, my unsuspecting guts like an IED just lying there, in the road between the columns, through the impeccable forest of the National Mall, sentinel floodlights, dead angels, the whole thing.
And you were outside roaming around, like Heathcliff, roaming across the moors and streets of Washington, DC, like a flag somebody was carrying through the streets, a furled flag in the darkness flashing between the buildings and then gone, like a flag the last live angel was carrying, running like a thief,
like a lit torch in the bottom of a well, in the fathomless well of the national Dream, fathomless Deep, whirlpool, Moby Dick, the angel running and running like the last whaleboat, crazy malevolence, scarred Beauty, sublime Beast, terrible, beloved.
With you aboard. Only you. It was like that.