You'll recall from the sagas, I hope, Grettir's last 
stand at Drangey, 
how his grip on the sword made his enemies cut off his 
hand? 
If he'd fled here instead and had tasted this terrible 
coffee, 
or read these letters you send, he'd surrender and lay 
the blade down. 
And it's Halloween. Skinny ghosts dress like cowboys and 
rest 
at the railing by my door, on their way from the 
children's ward.

Bev Monroe and his Pembina Valley Boys play at the party, 
and I'll practice my English on nurses, "Oh that's a nice 
name," 
and they may ask for mine but the burns on my back from 
the x-rays 
say I shouldn't show anyone anything ever again. 
In another year I'll be buried, or shivering here, 
coughing at that grey spitoon painted orange by the 
harvest moon.

Pack up Mother's clothes, drive her down to the new Betel 
Home, 
sell the boat to Arnason, and then go. 
Stand up straight in the place you're longing for, 
and don't write to me anymore.