Epistle to a Former Friend

When I say a prayer
for the wicked I despair
and think, of course, of you
and how your late-night rants
make reservoirs of jaundice rise
as veins keep tightening 
and helplessness
intensifies.

Forgiveness that I profess
just marks me as a liar
while dread, and darkness too,
make their cruel advance
without the clarity of lightning,
without the cleansing of the fire.

—A. M. Juster