MyThoughtsAreSouthbound

Write me a fond letter.

Words are just words,
But some days they turn into trees
with deep swerving roots
and hollows big enough for a child to hide in
-chin to knees-knees to chest-
and plot great plots inconspicuously.

I remember summers past;
pure, placid winds
and the blank sky so full with the substance
of which the richest music flows
-long silences
and then laughter.
The laughter of old friends
who know how to trace their way out of minefields
together silently
and summon the glistening sea
to run alongside their
aimless floating evening walks
-floating from stone to stone
from promise to promise-
up to that utopian balcony
where we're insubordinate and wildly animated and suddenly tensely silent, lost and worried
but the sun is all the same as always
-first golden, then bronze, then deep as a rose
before sinking into his shimmering sleep
into his ambrosial dreams, his easy undisturbed longings
which no one knows enough,
but somehow everyone envies.

Write me a letter from the past
and seal it with a simple short kiss, a mute whistling gesture
swift as the curious glance
of a stranger,
thin and white and withered
as a travelling feather,
a vagabond thought from a place on the map
I've never been but intend to go someday.

Write me yourself as you were when I first met you.
I got the "Urge for going"
but I'm still soaking in the shallow warm waters of longing;
longing is all the same as the sun and the sea.

longing is all the same as always –Thank God.

So write me yourself
in fleshtone ink
with your most kindly earnest hands,
with the kindest hands you can achieve,
because when I go into the night unarmed
the currents of dreams wash me up
where echoes run deep
and the edge of day, the edge of reason
is an optical cliff,
a laughable illusion.

Write me yourself
in one long sentence
that i could hang from wall to wall
in every single room in the universe,
running along all horizontals
just like the quiescent silver sea,
the constant simple friend
of selves
and summers
past.

Write me a word.
Write me 'yes'
and I will
dance my life out.
Write me 'no'
and I will drop the note into my bloodstream
and watch
until the hand-writing
dissolves into the flux
of all my grand impressions and small belongings.

18.05

In Edinburgh,

-but potentially
anywhere in the world-.

I look up at the salmon outbound comet trailing
in the afternoon sky
and I realize that after all
I've written you a letter.

I pull up a chair by my single window and watch
as the sun goes from golden to bronze, then deep as a rose.
And the minutes sail southward like winged migrations.