(as appeared in Troubadour)

                  Dover, 1999


She turned against the wind and clutched her shawl;
the eastern sky refilled itself with night,
a diurnal fountain pen's darkling draw
of sadness, spilled beyond the zenith's height
and past, beyond, till all the heavens swam
in melancholy-- twinkling, drowning stars,
a floating moon that didn't give a damn,
a meteor blazing like a flare, and spars
of aircraft drifting slowly by, aloof--
and smiling there, she hugged herself to think
how futile, all her brave demands of proof;
how foolish, seeking faith in pots of ink,
when night reflects a channel black with truth,
where every prayer must rise so it may sink.