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Letter from the Edge

(departure and severance)

I have left without leaving.
The streets still know my name,
but my tongue has gone fallow.
Here, rain is a rumour —
a ghost tapping the zinc roof in dreams.
I keep my hands in my pockets,
fingers closing on the lint of old words,
unwilling to spend them in this foreign air.

 

Letter to the Land

(witness from afar)

I have seen you in other guises:
a hill under frost,
a name in another’s mouth,
a photograph bent at the corners.
I speak to you as one speaks to a sleeping child —
softly,
knowing you may never wake to hear me.
Between us, the sea folds and unfolds
like a sheet no one will claim.

 

 

 

Letter to the Departed

(exiled within)

You are the country I cannot return to.
Your voice is the dialect I am losing.
I keep you alive in the only way I can —
by speaking to you in the dark,
by writing your name where no one will see it but me.
The signal flickers;
I wait for your face to resolve from the static,
knowing it will not,
and still I wait.

 

 

 

 

 

“Between the rain’s first syllable

               and the signal’s last breath,

I stand — coat heavy with distances,
  pockets full of unsent words.
      No one calls my name here,
         and still the wind answers.”

 

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