Postcards to Michael
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 tenderly picking you up from the floor like a delicate feather, putting you between two sheets of my favorite book, whose pages I’ll gradually close and put away forever. iii. You’d disappear into a cobweb and not even my mouth, who played with your groin and your abdomen, slid down your hair, your neck, ...