Poem For The Mad Letter Writer Not With Me, Who May Not Even Be
Rain mangles the glass.
When we drive, this car is a
basket that holds us
together. But it’s all,
you know I’m pulled somewhere
different. The map tells
of bridges, other streets. These
clapboard houses that stay
like 19th century Concord. Even their
colors are fixed, made to clutch
at some past. I keep
tasting words I’ll never
send you, that will probably
shipwreck at the bottom
of some poem. Do you think
in another place this wouldn’t be
so? Or that even here in these
wet hills where rainy ghosts of Thoreau
are humping shadow Emilys,
making even old word trees bloom alive,
I could live with you, Love?
Tho I suppose you only breathe on paper.