In his prison letters, Bonhoeffer is thankful
for a hairbrush, for a pipe and tobacco,
for cigarettes and Schelling's Morals Vol. II.

The river's applause fades 'round the ridge
like a candled freedom snuffed by a junta:

wounded echo. Crumbly shale of ocean

I'm the one who has imprisoned the rain dragon.

You know the story? About the dark-eyed girl who seduces
the holy man and ends the long drought.

I forgot to tell you my husband
died. He was in Spain and something
strange happened with alcohol or water. He loved them

What they had for ideals
must persist in the taut set
of that rearing horse's head,

The moon is sick. I fear she'll die
from lack of love, from poverty
and homelessness, lost in the sky,

I will go rent a U-Haul, and move to Hackensack,
And a cheap condo buy there, the driveway freshly tarred,
Hard by the Jersey turnpike, a swingset in the back,

"Oh, murder!" she was heard to mutter, or
"Mary mother of god!" You see how close
these utterances come? Please kiss me, Mom.

For how long did it live as a single thought
among the serene meditations of unschooled fish,
under the skyway of waves where there is

In sooth, I come here sadly, 
not trembling, not against my will, 
hoping you will set the record straight.