FOR WHOM AMONG US HAS NOT FELT HERSELF a CIPHER
You have my word on it hand on it /
a book a note a dying sun behind a cloud
I had /
a love. A blue /
kite untwisting /
the news: yr dead, I look /
at the page, grow /
broken at the root
Here they are the words fluttering in the mind
so banal a demand it went unnoticed
The week-before-last Ada asked Michael and I /
if we believed in God, a higher power, /
Often what I want is impossible
Glory exists along a continuum.
My head was in the middle / of something.