I Tie Letters to the Wind’s Neck

One morning, my back against fallen branches

I write: hello, son of the desert,

hello, dear fish fin.

At noon I seal the letter,

tie it to the wind’s neck. I trust wind

more than homing-pigeons,

their flocks all alike.

Wind’s alone, though not perfect.

Coming or going, it says only

Ah, I’m here.

Hello, grass root.

Hello, middle-aged woman out of work.

My room is a wooden chair with broken legs.

I stand, even at night.

My city’s pieced together from copies.

The truth is

everyone’s starving, yet all

walk around with pot bellies,

pretending they’re well-fed.

When I wake in the dark

I’m a pen dipped in night’s thick ink.

Writing a letter, I have to get past many difficulties:

mouse-gnawed envelopes,

damp stamps,

words I easily miswrite.

I’ve noticed: a letter, even without mistakes or misspellings,

can’t easily or safely

compose its own address.