it’s just you and the victims of it
and prayer, that link, small hoard of it
a national hymn, another dry land, a road we drive
hallway to window, a circle of it, and something in us
wonders why we need this dream of it, our pain its own
dry lawn seen from a window, Humvee, a dream of rich black
marmalade, heart within a paper sack, mirror of Babylon
this season of ribbons and lace, our sayings form a womb
replace a whirl of rain, dry need to see his face, to hear
his coming home