To Zarja Wherever you go, I will follow through groves, where cypresses huddle like shy brown women through clouded waters, under alligator bellies through empty churches, swept clean by the beggar wind and the preacher had long fallen asleep in the white kitchen his head on the oaken table and past the old, shawl-covered woman, napping in the rocking chair by the window: Look, how blue the evening sky! I will follow you into the night sea into dark, cold waters the unlit fathoms where heavy eyelids close Yes, even there, I will follow you my love.