Some Brief Love Letters to You

ABOUT THE WINDOW IN WHICH I SIT....



DEAR ______________,


I see a blue line that is a mountain.
You drove beside this mountain
many times when you lived here
and had a fishhook of poetry
in your spine, your odd eye and your cocks,
but I didn't know at the time
or I would probably have pulled

on the fishline of it.

That sounded bad, didn't it?





DEAR__________,



I can see a flashing red light warning an airplane
that a mountain is not a good thing
for an airplane to try to fly through.

In a sense, that's a love poem.

That flashing red light.

What would that red light say if it repeated itself
over and over, in language?

I imagine the red warning light saying: "douche...douche...douche..."

to the airplane while it smiles,

and the mountain sort of snickering.

Survival is juvenile stuff.

It's the other forms of collusion that get really interesting.





DEAR___________,


I can see our Susquehanna river: from my window
I get this allotment of tiny little islands
of the Dead that appear to have been painted
by Caspar David Friedrich or Bocklin.

Fuck them if you're not into them.

There is a harpsichord I want to show you,
that I want you to touch.

Maybe you know the one already.

Maybe you touched him last night.

Oh, the backyard?

The little gingko tree went yellow
first and then the allspice
finally let its leaves go all yellow too.
It was like somebody brave dying
first to make it easier
for somebody more afraid.

Two old ladies in a nursing home
will do that sort of thing.





DEAR _____________,



Why am I in love with your awkwardness
as if your English were Polish
walking on stilts
or on a pogo stick?

I don't know.

I just think you have the virtues of a clusterfuck

but in a much more compressed space.

In this, you are like IKEA.

And I love IKEA.