these are
men
always on
the verge
of
explaining themselves
letters promised
soon
and never
arriving
when the
moment’s too loaded
they promise
letters
when they
have to go away
they promise
letters
when what we
ask is something
without an
answer
they promise
letters
what are
their lives like
so far away
without us?
what do they
do there
but write
letters
that never
come?
men writing
letters
don’t want
to be there
when we find
out
tonight
there was a man
digging a hole
outside
to bury the
dead
someday you will understand he said
I am writing you a letter
Whenever I promise a letter, I procrastinate, in terror, reading about football.
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