It’s better to look west / to the Blue Ridge — / toward the sun setting / behind Table Rock and Hawksbill —
Than to look straight down / upon the bloody ground / of the old courthouse square / in my first and last hometown.
Rising sun or high noon, / death still looks the same; / its hideous grimace sickens / even the strongest of men.
Like the gray soldier / standing watch for invaders, / or the horde of witnesses exalting / the commodore’s daring deed,
Seeing the fisheyed stare / of a dead man or boy — / whether on a cross or a board — / should be no source of pride or joy.