Eight redwoods are then
seven
in a death row,
the throes of welded wire
panel abut a bottle dump,
and a young man sleeps beneath
the awning rolled out
just right,
just words that know no justice,
as window panes frame
the sun
rays on the other side of this
high security
prison cell,
I was a sailor too in a past life,
says the guard garnering
no favors for the inmates who press
their brow bones
between the bars