Issue 126, Spring 1993
How could I not have taken him home:
his eyes shone a gentian blue,
his name was Jesus, and I found him alone
by a river? Party boats, little monochromes
of pleasure, sailed past at interludes.
How could I not have taken him home?
The sky was black as Epistle leather and shone
against the penknife he wielded in view,
when he said his name and that he was alone.