To a Yosemite Friend in Georgia

I’m not a believer, but I believe in people that do.
A paralyzed woman has asked for a poem, others have asked too.

So after work can you touch them with luck, not shooting stars,
and keep them from harder things.

The potroom is running cold tonight, and I hesitate in asking …

. . .

To a Yosemite Friend in Georgia,

When you’re crying in a lonely bed
and paralyzed young in your own way.

I hope that life
becomes an idea in the evening breeze
or a night wind at speed.

I know it’s not
but as the endless moment
you come from unfolds.

You’re young and you’re old.

I’m a grown man
who’s promised you a poem
and you have such pretty eyes …