Letter

March 1, 1974  (I was 29)

            Letter

We have lost touch.

I do not feel your daily presence.

We no longer define adjacent space.

The movies used a convention-

self-propelled daily calendar pages sped the time-

reorientation was almost instantaneous,

but our flashbacks find us disjointed,

formulated conversations on the phone,

stylized letters, half understandable,

perfunctory love, signature and good-bye.

The grave would treat us kinder.

It is not difficult to tolerate the dead.

Platonic necrophilia is counted virtuous.

We promised a past we could not keep,

the memories became myths

or embarrassing irrelevancies.

(Spring happens earlier here than there,

some places it doesn’t happen at all.)

I hear you still have six below.