Boston 1.12.70

Dear Sarah,

I've decided that freezing or drowning
serves no world of purpose,
that a hotel room is easily a universe to be lost in,
that a single bed can be cold as any row of galaxies,
that a single bulb that hangs down unshaded
is frightening.

I have tried to sing.

I have thought about the thrush that panicked,
that broke its wing
and turned its head right around on its neck
when it hit the pane
and still lay there panting and bleeding;

I am sitting tight,
waiting for daylight to come and the phone to ring.