I wanted to write letters
on pieces of bark and burn them down to ash.

I wanted to scrape
the inside of each memory where it lies

closest to the membrane.
I wanted to send you a telegram in hieroglyphs

that the future is still inventing,
but whose encryption is locked

in a simple key: which is to say,
the mind tends to track shapes that may not bear

any likeness to their original outline.
Inky with light or cross hatched with shadow

is all that matters: whether the snow was falling
or if salt crystals etched the window glass.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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