“An altar to the mutability of need.” ~ seon joon
Little dream of flying that used to visit
my nights, why can’t I reconstruct you now?
Those sheets of white unrolling beneath
my suspended feet, their quiet a billow
audible somewhere in the mind— I bite
my tongue and the taste of blood and salt’s
a welt that is the shape of a world:
is someone thinking me, or dreaming me?
I keep every button that has lost its mate, save
pieces of twine, draw the shapes of rooms
on drafting paper— These kinds of need
urgent as the ache that wakes me in late hours:
memory and scent of a name, shape of a face
becoming language at the touch of fingers.
In response to thus: Letter from Boston.