The Sculptor:

And where was I while Legerdemain
and Nipwilliger the troll
rested by a dying campfire
in woods by a river in North Georgia?

Drinking Dortmunder beer and smashing
the empty bottles against the wall for kicks
roughly 500 miles to the north
in a converted elementary school,

making flexible molds for the end of the world
while Jacob Beizart drank whiskey, smoked grass,
slept on an old, dusty couch by the stairwell
and yearned after my girlfriend

when he wasn't playing his guitar; channeling
the terrible power of his blues, the terrible
wondrous power, the only thing left that
scared me

that truly mystified and scared me
in those last dying days
of our country.
Oh say, can you see?