8 September 2010, 3:21 pm
There is deep brooding in Arkansas. Old crimes like moss pend from poplar trees. The sullen earth is too red for comfort. Sunrise seems to hesitate and in that second loses its incandescent aims, and dusk no more shadows than noon. The past is brighter yet. Old hates and antebellum lace are rent but not discarded. Today is yet to come in Arkansas. It writhes. It writhes in awful waves of brooding. I can't understand the middle passage.... Read More »