If I wrote 95 poems of faith
and nailed them,
unsigned,
to your kitchen door
in the middle of the night
would you
know right away
that I wrote them and
that they were about you?
Or would you burn them all in cold fear
and
never sleep soundly again
wondering if the 459 year-old mad ghost
of
Martin Luther was stalking
the streets of your America,
the pockets of
his flowing robes
full of poems and nails?
cas
(2005)