I tried to send a letter to the one I love

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

sleeping,

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

sheer exhaustion,

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.