The only place I have been
is here, nowhere,

a series of letters that dream
of correspondence,
the ghost mailbox.

I loved those terrifying wind chimes
just before a summer storm.

I’ve hidden years in a city
mumbling que te vaya bien.

My permanent address?
The warm dent in the pillow
where your head rests.

The storm cuts to poorly-lit
skirmish scenes, twitching
strobe, rolls its boulders,
a cannonade over ticking
oil jacks, miles of grain—

and what part of me
is me?—

meaning I guess
I carry the carol of death,
an heirloom in a chest.


Sometimes I go there. Sometimes
there I am riding the light.

Other times in the spacious sea
it vanishes.

Until it returns
light as a rest note
to sometimes drop water on people
on dogs and baseball games
so roses flourish
and weeds and mosquitoes
and fills the creeks
and shaped like anything
a most unreal castle.

I have never really been.

But I do dream
early some mornings
when I’m half-awake
of the impossible.

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