From Caledonian Postcards
Was it just legal fiction brought us here?
Is silent on the question, gone cold for fear
They’d wake the dead. They won’t but you know me—
A “ruin bibber,” unreformed, Romantic.
The morning’s clear, if cold. I sit in choir,
Intone a requiem in foreign diction.
Communed with gulls, asperged by the Atlantic,
Would that I sang with Pentecostal fire.
My teeth are flint and steel. My breath is friction.