Dear Julia:
Allow for me your hand to kiss. Each bone
at night is like the tick of clocks. Alone,
the movement of a wrist is silent.
There’s nothing like a syntax lapse: (inside
still of you I am). This garden is strange:
we were fine until the blackened mass
kept creeping in at the edge. It could not
be ignored. Muscles must degenerate
in time. But why weren’t we old, say fifty-five,
sipping tea and orange by a fireside?
The problem is, I must admit, I had
to die, but I don’t quite know why. It seems,
well, what exactly should I say—it feels
like eyes avoided by eyes avoided by eyes.
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