To the voice of the retired warden of Huntsville Prison (Texas death chamber)

Until wolf-light I will count my sheep, Adumbrated, uncomedic, as they are. One is perdu, two, qualm, three Is sprawl, four, too late, Night is already a thirsty county in Texas, Salt flat and unremitting Blacktop dry as my mouth, And your elastic vowels, my genial, My electric ghost, my Radio’s lonely station. Because the spectacle Of suffering corrupts us, all punishments Are now executive, offstage. Most presume you a fable: Echoes of approaching bootheels That harry labyrinths of concrete corridors, Or hooded in burlap. We are convicted As we are also pardoned: He cherished His lawn, or afterwards he covered The victim’s face. You make no judgments Yourself. Only in bursal tones, Tactful as the file box That shows, if opened, the neon, pleading heart Of Jesus wrapped in barbed wire, You perform penalties others have scripted, so Untroubled by so many. How long I have listened to you For news of the opal distances,