#2

"Conversation with God"

If you gave yourself three years
to fast, that would be an exquisite
offer. I've reached the point
                                        where
I don't know what I'm doing but
I know what I'm doing when I'm
sad.
       Today, the papers: "Ingrid
Betancourt, Une Femme Libre."
Our hell is far away from us.

Heaven is in our midst, a foreign
object.
          The dependency of trust
is wearying. My head, a weight-
less hummer.
                  If you told me more
I wasn't listening. If you told me
less, I'd have forgiven you.
                                      I can't
trust everything you tell me—
language is for whimps. I can't
promise you disaster, though
a thousand hearty
                           hearts have
                           wanted it,—
globally speaking,
                           that's none.