Names of killed troops scroll on the screen
and an opening peony mouths the mute sound
of letters flapping beyond the window pane.
A thousand messages script the air
while I let out a bee razzing at the window.
His furred back bobs away
like a small cycling postman.
White letters of silence overflow
his sack, flying letters I can read
only as they wing away and I puzzle
the heft of this unworded day—
Day greens like a parrot, swarms
in an incomprehensible flow. I skid the surf
of exploding verbs. Last night I heard hints of the coming
day in a branch tapping on a drainpipe.
What matters is the letters
delivered in the space after the period.
A message clear beyond the wavering
glass: love-alone, love-alone.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.