it is right to hold such a hand in such a time
in such darkness, the touch enough to
remind that life does create life that life
if allowed will study, it was right to
want to bury self in the hair of a woman
who could if time and space allowed
the certain freedom of acceptance
it was right for the moment, to accept
such imaginary strength, as the shadows
grew, as the bus continued down yet
another path, in another city, where poems
are built in the thinness of a twelve year
old's tear
may such trips be limited: and such poems be sparse in our next life, dear friend
