table of contents
table of contents — poems

(Now she washes....)

Now she washes her hands,
      uses this worldly towel,
            and throws it down.

      are your republics.

They will drop off
      as dust when the rain comes.
In your Appalachian cabin
      watch the corn grow:
            it is your inheritance;

there will be no more flights
      of blinded armies:
            the rain is coming.
The wind is rising,
      and rain is on the wind.

She parts the branches,
      peering through the mist.

My tears run down.