The letter comes from a far country
on an early April evening, when
the moon is full
and stars run quietly.
The good earth, bored with the fecund
promise of spring, works
on the fetid
memory of the lost.
I stand and watch, in the mute anticipation
of the more theatrical,
something of Homeric proportions;
nothing happens tonight,
silence has sealed the wet lips of wandering poets.