XXVI
Some say I’ll see the edge of nowhere
When I get there;
Trees will grow their roots up,
Streams will run backwards,
The grass will be bright blue-
and my unborn son, born
to the grave.
My wife has nightmares
about crying children and
screaming and waves
and I hush, hush, there
my dear wife of Halifax
and tell her the end is nowhere
in sight
In the dead of night I stand on
the boat deck
and wonder what’s really out
there
in the grand, decent world
Because Lord, if there’s no
plan for me
no place, no job, no
family
then I’ll just go
Just please, Lord-
let my baby live
and make it home