Plague Letter

/ /

for Joshua Mehigan

We never meet. It’s been a year
A stylus scores
the anthems of leaving
and broadcasts them to the air.

Suffice it to say, I think of you
behind closed lids.
Keep well. For though you’re
impossibly far, you carry

with you the me most me.
How has it come to this?
It grew up without my knowing:
alive in me still there with you.