FOR AN EMPTY 
MORNING 

my thoughts
like anxious bees
go probing
into the 'why' of things:

   for I sit here, complacent
   while penitent beings
   like spectres void of hope
   pass before me
   in sorrowful procession

     yet, in my shop of
     timid dreams
     what song could I invent
     that would sustain them
      —that would serve as bread
      for an empty morning?

          —Angela de Hoyos
           San Antonio, Texas