Scott Nichols Discovery Like a breath of fresh air Bad blood takes everything to pieces All over the soft, blunt plain And this is what we have left? Texas grows deliberate Fissures drawn across its back But the drum is stretched too tight One gong has burst before another Surgeon’s hands feel jaded now Over us, crouching, sewing us up Nothing recent is without this, The great felling the lesser Without remorse We return everywhere with downcast hearts Soon, the little axe will kick the smaller axe into kindling Cowboys’ll stalk the firepits Without seeing horses for many miles Only opaqueness, The same symbol for empty and for full: The vulgar, open hand