Sunday, July 31, 2016

The finality of letters

You said, do not get attached to a bird
what he leaves is only feathers, on your desk

waste in your room and flight images in your poems
he will be scared, sleepless most nights from other sounds

like a dog howling in the distance,
or a star that crashes to earth with promises

of other lover, higher skies
he told me not to love a bird

what use is a feather
when tears make up the ink

do not love or write a letter
of the words that reflect sentiments, he said

like a mirror that's been cracked from
being used as a doorstep, to defer envy

to the doors. I sit every day and watch the sky
for a marker of better weather

a stream of clouds, a touch of sunshine
a flutter of his wing, sore from long distance

with the pen in my hand I will begin a letter
that will speak about various ends, connect the threads
How can I write you a final letter
when I cannot read my own handwriting?

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