Sunset in Appalachia, bituminous bulwark
Against the western skydrop.
An Advent of gold and green, an Easter of ashes.
If night is our last address,
This is the place we moved from,
Backs on fire, our futures hard-edged and sure to arrive.
These are the towns our lives abandoned,
Wind in our faces,
The idea of incident like a box beside us on the Trailways seat.
And where were we headed for? The country of Narrative, that dark territory
Which spells out our stories in sentences, which gives them an