Epistle (you)

in the blue dark trees
with their wet heat
& their terrible branches
in a room with a window
& a bed    in a room with
a small table for writing
on the backs of envelopes
in Brazil where you’ve never
been    in the bottoms of my
waking dreams    in the
middle of the street shouting
like God    in my whole
limitless life    in the morning
in the big noisy city    in
a cathedral made of cream
marble & stone    in a rivered
glass of wine    in a wedding
dress    in side this thought as
it shakes itself clean    in the
park with the statue of Yeats
& the leaves eating the sun
we sat under    in every single
day    in an hour    in the
children    in the sea    in an
envelope I forgot I mailed
myself a long long time ago

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