xxxxxvi.

The exile, waiting:

            along the brick walls, I

watch the dark,

            running,

down to the street, to run

down to the river.

Someday, I will lose

my name,

            and the name that

was given me—

--but I will not, forget.

in the dark, and the drums click

deep in the beat, but

someday: I remember the streets

dark with water, deep

with earth, in their constellations

minerals, between them—

the window breaks the carpet

into sections,

I will not forget, though, I go

into sections,

xxxxxv.

rain in the desert
comes,

--tumbling into the valley

I do believe that water hanging

from the sagebrush

knows more of God than I do,

I do believe, the pines rising

in the rocks

know more of Heaven--

with the water pooling

in their roots--

I do think of the northern cliffs

sometimes, I do think

of falling—the lights

fall down into the gutter, and

the whole of history

is written in the asphalt,

cracked—and they run heavy

pebbled, and bright—

and the thundering--footsteps

(she walked into

the sea, like the lady

into the reeds, and that the ukulele

was missing, is the only saving

grace-)

a slender grace, this one, a slender

edge, a tenuous beat,

on the sidewalk, and a shallow

hope, certain, the film of water