Recently, while going through some old boxes, I found a single sheet of paper with a short typed poem. I thought that it was worth the effort to write it up here, though, as for that, you should be the judge.
I sit, reading again a letter
from you, the lines of black spent
on an old envelope,
reading too, the long passage of absences
between us.
Of course, I understood. Returns are often
harder than goodbyes,
And I, well, I hunch by book and phone,
unable to scan or think, willing your eye,
your hand, your breath.
Long perspectives, no doubt, heal
and bind, balm to those
hurts; heedless actions, thoughts,
seeds of unlived life, ramifying,
unkind.
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