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, the surface of your skin, could bring you back. iv. Michael, your departure was an unexpected silence in the middle of Waiting for Godot that Constant Craving in K.