Volume 3 Number 2
My footsteps raise no noise from the young pavement.
Shop windows fail to recognize me when I pass.
The laughter just ahead will wax nervous if I look at it directly or stop to listen.
Even churches in their quiet shadow bid me not to stop to kneel or plead forgiveness; "Turn away!"
I resort to graveyards, where stones make a friendless audience.
And I would change places, if I could
With young lovers in fresh earth,
Whose last touch at least was warm with pulsing flesh.