30 July 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 2
Two Halves: Elegy for One Summer's Dawn
Bellefontaine: a town on the way to somewhere else, a place
where you run out of gas, stop to make love on a picnic table
somewhere by the wheat field—when, toward magic hour, the boy
already loaded the gun, the smell of bacon wafting outside
his grandparents house, where he went to make their deaths real.
The news always first: yellow tape stretched over dirt roads,
clean white houses, the scarred fields and blood spackling the earth.
Now the shouldered camera, microphone shoved toward the mouth
of the sheriff: he can't deal with this, but gives them what
he knows: t