you never liked to get
the letters that i sent.
but now you've got the gist
of what my letters meant.
you're reading them again,
the ones you didn't burn.
you press them to your lips,
my pages of concern.
i said there'd been a flood.
i said there's nothing left.
i hoped that you would come.
i gave you my address.
your story was so long,
the plot was so intense,
it took you years to cross
the lines of self-defense.
the wounded forms appear:
the loss, the full extent;
and simple kindness here,
the solitude of strength.
you walk into my room.
you stand there at my desk,
begin your letter to
the one who's coming next. |