I dreamt you sent me a postcard saying

"I've chosen a compulsively married person & am happy"

which seemed rather lame.

On the back was a poem

& a note announcing 38 new poems

titled "A Quart Brown Water"

I woke to the interior light of the city at dawn to write this

Blue grid combinations kept dark in the distance

Years ago, I told you about Philip Whalen's reflection on a friend

who never responded to his letters,

didn't acknowledge the books he sent him,

made Whalen feel like a planet spun into space

I never dreamt then that this would be about us,

that even the need to write could die,

that the cut would seem so final between us

as the result of no final break

but only of distance, time, & things lost