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Poem	In the late night listening from bed I have joined the ambulance or the patrol screaming toward some drama, the kind of end that 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 quarry where highschool lovers parked their lurching cars, Berky learned to love in that dark school. Early her face was turned away from home toward any hardworking place; but still her soul, with terrible things to do, was alive, looking out for 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 beds listening through the night, so far and good.
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