In the
hope we talk soon;
there is the yellow glow of a lemon
and a horde of jumping mice,
what will be will be
and loving at twenty-two,
everything and nothing
but a gun full of blanks.

When
I bought your Christmas gift;
crushed, between cars, perhaps a deathwish
while I wait for you,
the mirrors and the howling
and is it really you?

And then
I saw you the day before
              for the first time in three months;
it was a kind of heaven
where I shouldn’t cry over what is done,
the ghost of you shadowed the moon
and it’s it’s it’s the third but not final,
but not last.

All the while
I wonder if you’ll ever listen to these.
Sometimes I wonder further
if I’ll ever send them.