I read the poetry of convicts now that I am ex-,
& letters from a pen pal reminding
the inside never leaves me,
has its own beauty, its tragic
sense of the day-to-day.
Reginald Betts builds monuments—
to memories like monsters
that never cease following
through free, smoggy air of the city.
Nazim Hikmet? Think sadness,
isolation. Judith Smith?
There is no true forgiveness in this world.
Then, my friend Savannah—
I’ve never met—expresses
how she’s learning happiness,
as I did, in the horrible strangeness
of that bleak but fascinating place.
Her words don’t come as poems