Sorta Kinda Letter-Poem. Indirect Light.

Let us sit a while, I say to you again, in this good breeze.

There is sunburn from September sun on the top of your knees.

The yellow light highlights the sunbleach in my hair.

You ask me a question, it is a long while before I raise my words

to answer. Right now Vinca is my favorite flower,

for how she sits quiet in the pot on the corner of the porch

& doesn't need for drink or sun. She is light pink, strong.

She issues from herself. It is glorious, and always has been

at the edge of the backyard.


I want to buy you a garden you say. You make noise.

Shift in your seat. I can't see your eyes. My face beams

reflected in your glasses: I am all I see. Or at least

you continue, provide for you the land.


When I move to the city the streets will test me.

I imagine this will be the time I need you to help me grow.

A butterfly flies by--really it is a moth. Paper-wings.

To be a butterfly, so much more romantic.

They both, however, start as worms.


We both, of course, eat ourselves. We disintegrate

in to other new, same things. Have you always worn

or mostly, only black? I wonder. I rack my head

for all the way back then, when we used to be

or still were kids. I dont remember clearly too much

of that.


You stop listening, you always do. Your way of pretending

not to care, to act like you dont hear. You always will, too.

I love the precision of light back here. How easy it is,

how good it looks. I will pick this flower for you and lay it

down. I remember now. It still will grow.