they
They smell your breath,
lest you might have said I love you.
They smell your heart.
These are strange times, my darling.
The butchers are stationed at each
crossroads with bloody clubs and cleavers.
Read more http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/08/16/100816fa_fact_anderson?currentPage=all#ixzz0w7XSdTDh
