The only relics left are those long spangled seconds our school clock chipped out when you crossed the social hall and we found each other alive, by our glances never to accept our town's ways, torture for advancement, nor ever again be prisoners by choice.
Now I learn you died serving among the natives of Garden City,
Kansas, part of a Peace Corps before governments thought of it.
Ruth, over the horizon your friends eat foreign chaff and have addresses like titles, but for you the crows and hawks patrol the old river.
May they never forsake you, nor you need monuments other than this I make, and the one I hear clocks chip in that world we found.
