The Letters

You never liked to get

The letters that I sent.

But now you’ve got the gist

Of what my letters meant.

You’re reading them again,

The ones you didn’t burn.

You press them to your lips,

My pages of concern.

I said there’d been a flood.

I said there’s nothing left.

I hoped that you would come.

I gave you my address.

Your story was so long,

The plot was so intense,

It took you years to cross

The lines of self-defense.

The wounded forms appear:

The loss, the full extent;

And simple kindness here,

The solitude of strength.

I said there’d been a flood.

I said there’s nothing left.

I hoped that you would come.

I gave you my address.

You walk into my room.

You stand there at my desk,

Begin your letter to

The one who’s coming next

Begin your letter to

The one who’s coming next