A hymn trapped in the wind
after countless Sunday morning mantra,
heckling me until losing a piece of soul.
My unpurged confession appearing finally in epitaph.
(unabridged, first edition, unsigned, un-numbered) .
The words surviving the censure of seasons

For I loved you like a horse wimpering in pain
for its abusive owner;
the saxophone of your voice affecting
our planetary alignment.
I loved you, your disaffected love
of everything not me. And so I wandered
up a hill to hide-only every seasonal storm
had found me, leaving me
more damaged than before.

Weathering poorly as a pupil fearful
of learning one last time, I embraced
the forbidden spokes of the unruly
despite the fact I loved you
when the wind rose up to a funnel in a cloud
of grey dominion- and our town stood still.