Dear X,

In spite of wanting to call you, I won’t. We don’t hear or understand each other Over the buzz of time’s snub nosed hacksaw Grinding, grinding away at our bones,

Or at least now, we don’t want to. Even though it was your hand that cast This die, was I there at your elbow – specular, Only different voiced – urging you on?

You have now become an idea, a symbol, A chunk of my past trussed up in memory’s Linen – a mummy in a display case by the door That I point to the visitors, usually accidental

Drifters into my ever-shifting alley. I am
The grim curator narrating his quick spiel, Confident of his approximate reconstruction Of a cloudy past. You don’t interrupt. You don’t

Say that there is a fib, this here is hagiography. You stay there behind your glass of silence. Besides my days are nights in your time zone. So in spite of wanting to call you, I don’t.

Sincerely, Y

PS: Just return early tonight from your working day, I will be sitting up in my sleep for our talk On the dead and the undead.