Oft reminded of thought’s quickness in a croak of noise
from a trustworthy messenger,
a waitress unloved.
The gravity of liberty groans savagely
and make no mistake: I know cavaliers
dream of violence.
They dream of denial’s twisting corridor.
I dream of dancing on the table. The glasses destroyed to ash.
What I can offer to the night: a photograph of bodies
in the river and the ravens above it forming a river all its own.