Let the transit of light right my wrongs:
Let the rock I threw at the other boy
Let the canopy of continuous lies burn in brushfire,
Let the shoplifted hammer be returned to its hook.
Let the sliver of pheasant-bone stuck in my throat
Dissolve into water. Let the trickle
Slither over black rock into the Pacific:
Slide, crescendo, wave
Before generations of reeds.
Let the end begin in a distant city.
Let me be the last to know, so
I can see these tomatoes ripen, like a sentence
Completed, before I pick them.
Let them taste sweet as