No laws written
to
guard you,
I write them wh ite,
your hand in mine,
palm against palm, lifelin e, heartline.
No rules written
to
guide you,
I write them white,
words on the wind,
traced with a stick where we walk on the sand.
No news written
to
tell you,
r
write it white,
foa m on a wa ve,
as we lift up our skirts in the sea, wade,
see last go ld sun behind clouds,
inked water in moonlight.
No poems written
to
praise you,
I write them white.
WILLIAM LOGAN
The Vision
They didn't know just why they had been chosen–
by whom or what would a lways be unclear.
That night, the last rema ins of hope were frozen
into the consolations of their fear.
The spirit falters when the vision dies,
know ing the shapes in darkness that appa ll.
Around the garden rose the famous cries
of crows:
awe, awe, awe, awe .
Then came the fall.
A colder evening, then a bitter dawn.
The silence dropping on them like a sheet
composed a scene in wh ich the light had drawn
a scribbled figure in the empty street.
They knew a little of oblivion,
the force in things th at makes a thing repeat.
