Epistolary

To whom it may concern, as dear to me

as air: my doubt of you's a sour stone,

a serpent 'round my heart. Your ghost, at sea

Might swallowed be to wander halls of bone,

Your jail the whale that made you: 'prisoned wraith

From bottled boat, excreted fantasy.

However, if this note were sent in faith

It might be found and caught between your teeth.

It takes a mouth, an ear, so many words

To lay this revenant. But if I speak,

To prove your life, will fog of breath just blur

A mirror's glass? Whose feet set boards to creak?

Whose hand is this I hold? I am sincere

In this, at least: I wish that you were here.