Night Letter to Regina

Theft became a necessary gift.
When I stole the car and drove
off into the darkness like a mythic
Jesuit, it was for you. To give
you something poor. You have
rubies, hearts, and poems,
but not a car stolen by a priest
who has to see you or go blind.
It was the fairy at the wedding
did it, lighting cigarettes
and smiling, smiling at me—
the poor priest who does not guess
love’s secrets. I do not guess;
I know. It was not me but you
that he blasphemed. Sweet,
I am no mythic Jesuit. I am
the thief they never catch. Yet
I swing nightly on the gallows.