table of contents
table of contents — poems

All Souls' Day

Cold clouds rise almost,
      almost to the haloed moon:
You must choose one thing.

A road through the woods
      in the November shadow —
What have you chosen?

Dancing to the sound
      from your little radio:
What is the one thing?

The station changes,
      the voice cries, "Bring it on home!"
You must have chosen.