Letter from a Poem

For the sequences alternate between
some southern terminations along
shed memories and stranger
relations involving arcs of orbit
here a planet there the curve of
literature’s promise of amnesty.

Black bones in light conscripted
these dreams of invocatea, the
produce of this soul’s own kiss
denied, derived, delineated, thus
destroyed between some further
fraction and distraction.

Mists whose drops reflect small gods.
Pages where their wings left traces.
Night, last hope, denied, forgotten.
Even no one senses all the singing.
Even no one lives in bones and furrows.
After a few more apparently perfect eclipses.
We’ll both understand the envelope.