I left your letter
on my desk for a week now
as each day’s calamities
eddy around its rectangle
like river around rock,
its edges shaggy and stained
yet still as charged as when I found it
stuck between the usual gloss
in the mail box.
Your delicate script
with its cursive flourish
resolute along the margin,
the y’s and I’s tiny and puffed
like you in your down vest.
I miss you. I miss myself—
Most nights, I am stunned awake
by the gunshot sound of the fridge
I can’t stop from churning out cubes
for parties I’ll never have.
Every day I throw them out
to melt in the lawn.
So, nothing much to say,
except that today I woke
to find the morning had let herself in
and was quietly building
her green jazz around me
as the warming floor eased its back
and outside, birds tossing chips of ice.
