Dear,
You that have no name yet
that washes the strong shoreline with emerald lips
with fingers that twist from the inside
you that would dream of my eyes and my answers
I am writing only to tell you before we scratch idle paths down
each other’s backs
I would that you stand alone on rooftops
that your sweat rain down on someone else’s garden
that you not hold out your hand, lest I might take it
grasp at it like the dark corners of a deep sleep
or the hopeful morning sky
I would that the streets not buckle
that the old houses down by the invisible cemetery
be reborn
be as they were without the withering rot of age
days we must all face
I would that you not come to call on me
not give me cause to laugh
to smile
to stand on rooftops
to have my tears fall into my garden
I would that you stay on the other side of the sea
I hope you know the space between two kernels of sand
is infinite
but is nothing compared to the distance between hearts
between two that must be kept apart
I would that the hedge-rose grow wild up the fences that divide us
that you know what it is to be a hummingbird on a spring day
—petals like a thousand loving hands—
when all the flowers still look the same
All me love,
Irene
