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.


8/9/2017

Jim Genzano




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