TRAVEL LETTER
We sat on a dirty park bench
lost San Francisco,
talking for hours about letters
we’d written when letters were a thing,
we laughed in goofy syncopation
not drinking full of smiles,
for a while we were silent
each thinking of letters we’d sent
addressed to sadness and bitterness
what we named lost loves
lost by anger
lost in selfish everything
lost time,
lake at Golden Gate Park
ducks played and wrote letters on floating
reflections,
we looked at each other and laughed
what could we do but travel some more
away
apart
with memories.
WATCHFUL
Today one of my students said
‘it was about death when Auden
wrote stop all the clocks,
he was my South, he was my North
death of love.’
I nodded, looking out my cold windows
under watchful clouds
playing games
jangled in illusive words
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