We make dogma out of letter writing: the apocryphal story of Lincoln who wrote angry letters he never sent. We wait for letters for days and days. Someone tells me I'll write you a letter and I feel he's saying you're different than anyone else. Distance's buzz gets louder and louder. It gets to be a blackest hole. I want the letter about the time we cross the avenue, and you reach for my hand without looking—I am afraid I'm not what you want. We float down the street as if in the curve of a pod and the starry black is like the inside of a secret. We're drunk. The streetlight exposes us which becomes the deepest horror. Yes. End the letter like that, so it becomes authorless. Then the letter might give off secrets: acid imbalances that detonate.
I have thirty seconds to convince you
that when I’m not home, my verve is still,
online or if I’m sleeping when you call,
sheep are grazing on yesterday’s melodrama.
Does anybody know what the burning umbrella
really meant? Forget it. Tell me what you need.
Leave me a map. Leave me your net worth
for reference. Leave me more than you ever planned.
Frankly, I’m anxious your message will be a series
of blurs, that you’ll leave the endearing part out,
garble your confession: A misstep here, a domain there.
A ventriloquism. The phone is in the kitchen,
but I’ve lost my way. It must be hunting season.
I retract every last gesture for your same retraction.