Postcard to Michael Ondaatje - 1
The secret love
only you and I know about
worries me. It cruises
through the Amsterdam canals lost;
it’s in the slow demolition
of the ceiling; the naked children
shaking from 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;
I have a throbbing
come back homeas soon as possible.