Spring 1994 • Vol. XVI No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1994 |

What It Is like for You

You are writing a letter to someone who doesn't have a lot of time left. The sun hurts because it is old and bitter (you said to whoever brought the mail). The radio is shooting out static in the form of what sounds like policemen. They are saying "Drop your gun. We will form a community around you." You have no gun, so you keep writing. It has been a long time. The government changes. Fires stop burning. You have a dog now, books. The letters you write to the dying don't make it seem like such a long time. But it is, because more have died. The letters make it seem like words, not minutes, are passing between you and the dying. You don't feel time in the next, next, next sense, you feel it again, and again, and again. The letters are loaded with light, but useless. The dying finish dying. That was a long time ago and the world still empties, fills up--like a tube of blood. It's like it was when it started for you: getting a message out to someone in time, a hurting sun, no gun, wr

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