Write to me a letter
etched by Sunday morning
sunlight,
centered in a room where
returning robins sing
of the sea-swung
palms and beaches of
Florida. Your chosen words
will glint beyond
their stony use and point
to the history we sense in night, that lore
drunk on nocturnal
breezes (the polyphony of sleep)
when cricket chords mesmerize
wall shadows stretched
tight from your feet
until they forget to be faithful to your body.
When your letter arrives,
I will memorize your words, rendering
your syntax so finely all will be forgotten except
your dancing beyond the ink-stains,
a game of pretend really,
as if you were always
in this room.
--James PateLinkback:
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