In the late night listening from bedI have joined the ambulance or the patrolscreaming toward some drama, the kind of endthat Berky must have some day, if she isn't dead.
The wildest of all, her father and mother cruel,farming out there beyond the old stone quarrywhere highschool lovers parked their lurching cars,
Berky learned to love in that dark school.
Early her face was turned away from hometoward any hardworking place; but still her soul,with terrible things to do, was alive, looking outfor the rescue that—surely, some day—would have to come.
Windiest nights,
Berky,
I have thought for you,and no matter how lucky I've been I've touched wood.
There are things not solved in our town though tomorrow came:there are things time passing can never make come true.
We live in an occupied country, misunderstood;justice will take us millions of intricate moves.
Sirens wil hunt down Berky, you survivors in your bedslistening through the night, so far and good.
