“Say you have a dream and in that dream you have a broken arm. You are driving around a strange city looking for first aid. It is late at night in the dream, and raining. Block after block you drive, through intersections, past warehouses and gymnasiums. You go through township after township. The neon glow of tilted pink martini glasses, the fluorescent glare of all-night garages and shopping malls with their acres of empty parking lot — you keep going. You have seen several signs saying Mercy Clinic, Mercy Emergency Care, Mercy Pharmacy, but you keep on going. A hospital is what you need, but you are looking for the one you’ve heard about since you were young: the one called Justice. That’s the situation all of us are in.”

–TONY HOAGLAND, writing about race in American Poetry Review