I too love.    Faces.    Hands.    The circumference 
Of the oaks.    I confess.    To nothing
You could use.    In a court of law.    I found.
That sickly sweet ambrosia of hope.    Unmendable
Seine of sadness.    Experience taken away.
From you.    I would open.    The mystery
Of your birth.    To you.    I know.    We can
Change.    Knowing.    Full well.    Knowing
                                                                                           It is not enough.
          Poetry    Time    Space    Death
I thought.    I could write.    An exculpatory note.
I cannot.    Yes, it is bitter.    Every bit of it, bitter.
The course taken by blood.    All thinking
Deceives us.    Lead (kindly) light.
Notwithstanding this grave.    Your garden.
This cell.    Your dwelling.    Who is unaccountably free.











                            No one promised you the light    or the morrow