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 …