"'Suppose it was a drop of blood ...
So much guilt lies buried
Beneath the innocence
Of autumn days.'"
- Wallace Stevens, "One of the Inhabitants of the West"
With morning's burn, the darkness comes
That was erased, the children lost
Who won't return.
It's what they were sacrificed for
That hurts: A laugh, some power chords ...
But there was always something more,
The dream we seemingly discovered,
So subtly was it placed
By the pale roadside
In this ordinary town, a dream
Where every moment was distilled
And every thought we had was tended,
As if we were important
Enough to fill the empty world —
It was this that made us complicit.
