“It is too late to start
for destinations not of the heart.
I must stay here with my hurt.”
(from Here, by R S Thomas)
Each particular ache a question,
repeated as a mantra.
I strain for its answering echo.
What belief put me in this Alcatraz?
Political prisoner of my blind arrogance,
I stare at my questions until they confess,
They always confess.
Verses of Five 