I haven’t written you in a long while
What is new with me but a thousand trips to hell
Pregnant with expectations
On abandoned ships with broken sails
A young son is lying dead; the mother is frantically
Searching. There are customary negotiations and
Percentage commissions, a deal is made and lost
The bus departs on a long evening trip
The woman is waiting for you with mustard
Collected from a house that has not known death
Truth has become dreams and dreams, journeys
Yet the dead still sleep the endless sleep
All this needs retelling, in an endless letter
That I try writing since I have known you
I sit with the pen you gave me and the paper
I stole from the mortician’s journal
Are the words still here? Or unseen by me,
Do they wait across the abyss of time?
This dark moonless night
You have come looking for me
Now I repent, I haven’t written to you
About my dreams and endless stories
The symphony of motion is slowing to an end,
And I am longing to see my friends
Even if I don’t post them, to whom else am I
Going to address these letters of life?
