tangerine press, wantling, only in the sun

San Quentin's Stranger

In Death Row's dim undersea
light, he watched them
preparing the Pellet, testing
the cables & pulleys, & it
held his terror of the dawn

He read again
her last letter
& knew his last bond
with life
was this memory
of a girl's cool hand

During the next hour
a chaplain came
to offer an empty hope
but he would not allow
that futile prayer, that
wasted hour

In the last half-hour
his despair shifted
& in that slight pivotal
point he embraced
the life which consumed him
found there was no fate
he could not surmount
with scorn