On a scant atoll,
six letters, caught my soul.
I cast those letters in ink, not brass,
. . . arranged them there to hold you fast.
A nib dripped ink,
so those letters made me think . . .
of the ruin of kin,
. . . . Oh how the soul does rub it in.
A ribbon until the end of time,
arms I knew, would soon hold mine.
So in words I set our souls . .
stories to contain us all. . . like bowls,
. . . be good, and call me soon . . .
. . . let's Muse beneath the moon,
and with me, write nighttime poetry.
