#2

my fingers trace the words
in your letter.
Three pages
.
I see how you struggled
to keep the lines straight
with an imaginary stencil, correcting
as they drooped. Words
.
in your language hide you
in the corners. The pictures of a not so pink
sunset taken from your window
make me smile
.
There is no hint of rain
The drone of construction drowns
sounds of life and I wish
.
poetry was dead. You wrote
.
you would like
to die into the love you have as pieces
of cloud dissolve in sunlight
.
.
As youth sets the sky ablaze
the wrinkles on your face will become yesterday's
.
lines and I will read them.
Again