Sunday

For You Whom I Cannot Name



The wonder of green, those lush coverings.
The wonder of soul, that wound deep inside.

Even in the city green appears
in the small, unattended places
refugeed from enclosure of park,
refugeed from the deeded plat.

The sky, of course, they cannot touch
and perhaps this is why so few look up.

Inside the hearts of torturers,

all those who work wire, plier, water
and burning cigarette to such effect,
every morning astounded  at the luck
that brought good pay to their pleasure,
off their gridded chart of need for pain

inside this beating thing called heart
inside a beat that comes every four years

a soul....and the lawyer, every ten?