Sleeping Late on Judgment DayBy: Jane Mayhall My heart is bursting with homage as I head off to a hostile eternity, writes Jane Mayhall, now eighty five, who wrote most of these poems in an urgent outpouring over the last few years. From the decades outdated subway token in the bottom of her shoulder bag, which calls forth earlier days in New York City, to the violin her father practiced among the pantrys jam jars in her Kentucky childhood, Mayhall plucks small treasures that