To write means to drown nothing more
I write you letters which means I drown in specific places the shape of an alphabet the shape of a paper a face
Here let me erase what I’ve written
No let me erase the previous beloved to whom I wrote
The globe is full of plastic made to look like snow the bowl is full of things pretending to be fruit incapable of rot
Fruit is the womb of the plant is the mute sweetness of hope
To write means to drown in memory the birds clotting in a New Mexico refuge a crane
age 38 years a crane age 7 weeks
The way they sound like traffic raucous in the cornfields the way they fold themselves up like letters mail themselves across the dry distances
Listen to the season’s beckon and call to the body’s ceaseless tide
The heart invented migration migration its only task
It takes what arrives invites it to stay
But only for a while