Winter 2002 • Vol. XXIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2002 |

A Sunday Drive

No sense of history in our bones while churches all across the South are torched. An opera critics shun overheard on that gravel road— farm vehicles clogging up the rural arteries of America where billboards rising from fields of corn proclaim the coming of the Lord made real by hook or by crook—choral voices slipping further down to B flat. Then A. Who knows what happens after that? We spot a dead raccoon curled under the overpass—eyes fixed on the road ahead as its mate darts back underneath the wild brush.

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Timothy Liu’s next book, Luminous Debris: New & Selected Legerdemain (1992-2017), will be out next year. He lives in Manhattan and Woodstock, NY. www.timothyliu.net

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