Yet Another Sentence

You can only read so much. One surrenders Heaven in favor of yet another sentence. When I sit down to write, I think of you.

When I sit down to write, I prefer to face North. Email instead of prayer was surprisingly effective. One thinks of him in his VW, smiling at cashiers, but not speaking.

Soon enough the invitation will come and you will have to choose. We spent hours at that bar, just talking about what we would do when winter came, but when winter came you were dead and I was living in another town. Only once in a back seat and to this day I regret it.

The cat turns to look at her as if surprised. We can always go home but underestimate how much we appreciate exile. It does have to do with that certain slant of light.

I should shave. You should learn how to use that camera or we're going to have to rely on memory. Are you reading this?

Are you reading this? The you I have in mind is never you, because I am always specific. And yet.

In the train station I paused, struck by the reasonableness of English-speaking haiku poets. And bend to kiss you and straighten happily.