I tried to send a letter to the one I love
I tried to send a letter to the one I love,
but she offered no address.
I do not mind, because I don't believe
in the sort of time that crouches and strikes,
or leaks all over your sheets as you are
the stain of good days that were and aren't anymore.
I believe in the sort of time that unfurls itself for
huge slabs of incisive cuneiform.
Coasts which collude with their waters
until descent is reflexive, borne of
exhausted to the very marrow of the cliff.
I tried to send her a letter because
what the soul needs is not
a wall of mirrors for the profile,
or a night echo for the voice,
it is a chambered nautilus; I need
a nautilus the way sleep needs a dream.
I need her planetary autonomy,
her singular rotation
the way sleep needs
a dream, the way wilds
need a fire.
Remind me that there are
species of love yet undiscovered,
that even as we are now basking
in the afternoon of cataclysm,
someone will probably surf
those big waves
at the end of the world.