Ode to a Lost Season

Dear you, I wrote this in the margin of a book you gave me. I wrote it on the back of a receipt, in the steam of a mirror. I never sent it. The post office closed. The stamps went out of date. Your ...

In the space between one beat and the next, the whole world holds its breath. You could say anything there. You could say nothing. The silence would understand.

You were the long light of June, the grass that knew our names. Now the fence has grown around the field and the gate only opens in dreams. I still walk there in the rain, where the creek used to run...