Correspondence – Poem



Words were arrows then,

conduits of lightning no one but me

knew where to receive.  Poems

clawed forth from a sea whose danger

I respected.  Reach this if you can.

Write me.  Right me.  Truly there is no way

to deliver it—you with no body—

I with no soul—give me your words,

back me up in the tunnel between worlds.

There must be a way.


Each tag is a graffiti mark that erases

the past by replacing it with another.

Someone had something to say, but who?

These walls form a palimpsest of vacant

movements of the mouth.

Words.  Sounds.  Names.  Who cares?


An entrée of paper-maiche, an opener

of letterpress cardstock, diluted pulp

of parchment to drink—I’ll do, I’ll do it—

imbibe these wordless spaces

so that somewhere inside

my love for you will become

a bridge for your absence,

and I will have more to say

than you.



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