Postcards to Michael
i.
Dear Michael,
the secret love
only you and I know about
worries me. It cruises
through Amsterdam’s canals, lost;
it’s in the slow demolition
of the ceiling; the naked children
shaking in the morning dew;
whales coming to die in New York City.
The hunter’s arrow pierces
my most silent sensibility.
My inconclusive poems
are dying of neglect;
and I have a throbbing
headache. Please,
come back home
as soon as possible.
ii.
I’m lifting
you up from the floor
like a feather,
laying you
between two sheets
of my favorite
book,
whose pages
I’ll gradually
seal and
hide away
in the attic
forever.
iii.
You’d disappear into a cobweb
and not even my mouth,
which played
with your groin
and your abdomen,
slid down your hair, your neck,
the surface of your skin,
could bring you back.