Even the walls cannot hide
the sorriness in your velvet eyes
and the tears (although they’ve dried).
Someday, somewhere in this country we will meet—
a spinning globe contained in city streets
and waterfall, waterfall, stride,
tails (and never heads) decide.
Over my field-head, pray,
that this missive completely
takes me all away
and by land, my lips would be dry as yours,
my fervor, my core,
my cherie amour—
whisper in my ear how much you love me;
whisper in my ear how much you loved me;
whisper in my ear.
I miss you singing your Christmas carols,
with your tambourine made out of
discarded bottle crowns and coat hanger wire,
eyes blacks as crows,
voice cold as night—
I still remember the chill, Mary Ann,
in my solitude; oh, how blessed I am!
Isn’t it obvious
that I cannot keep my silence;
isn’t it obvious
that I cannot forever hold my peace?
— A. P.