View From My Window
On Waiting For the Mail
I wait for the mail man to deliver the mail.
A cold dark sun shivers the sky with icy words.
The thunderclouds are heavy, alien; the weatherman
says no rain will come. If time will make the bitter
mistake of not telling me what is to come, then I will
drive it out with the sound of my own voice. I have not
heard laughter in a very long time.
I dream of receiving a letter from you, staring at me from
an immense black hole. You are like the hour of moments,
a flower that fades falls to the ground. I am not a flower. I am
a leafless branch.
The floor takes us to our most grounded point once it
falls beneath us. The brothers
of our country are the imaginings of ourselves. If you look
at a milk carton you will see my face on its carton;
I go hours without dreaming, without seeing, and yet my
photograph still comes out clear.
If you see me, mailman, tell me where I am going.
I have no place out of the storm, save for the safety
of my own front porch.
A cold dark sun shivers the sky with icy words.
The thunderclouds are heavy, alien; the weatherman
says no rain will come. If time will make the bitter
mistake of not telling me what is to come, then I will
drive it out with the sound of my own voice. I have not
heard laughter in a very long time.
I dream of receiving a letter from you, staring at me from
an immense black hole. You are like the hour of moments,
a flower that fades falls to the ground. I am not a flower. I am
a leafless branch.
The floor takes us to our most grounded point once it
falls beneath us. The brothers
of our country are the imaginings of ourselves. If you look
at a milk carton you will see my face on its carton;
I go hours without dreaming, without seeing, and yet my
photograph still comes out clear.
If you see me, mailman, tell me where I am going.
I have no place out of the storm, save for the safety
of my own front porch.
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On Waiting For the Mail
On Waiting For the Mail
