I know what they did
To your daughters.
Some days I lie in a field
Spreading my arms. Once
Years ago during
A dark winter I tried
In vain to write a poem
In your honor. I was earnest
And the thing turned out
Like a nursery rhyme
But because it was for you
I kept it in a box.
There’s nothing wrong
With innocence
Though I don’t say it
Or I do, but only
In the proper hour
When I’m bowed
By injustice and need
Something like the first flower
I brought home.
I admit I know very little.
Easy. Rain now.
I prefer to think
There’s another life to come.
Planet of the Blind 