Dear John,

All my poems are addressed to no one,
And no thing.
You see, I’ve been trying to braid scenes, create spaces,
To hide and for you to seek. A sanctuary, a sin.
We could dream of fortresses,
places to protect us
From the worst of all: ourselves.
But we are here, in this city,
And your mouth is a sky,
Setting, leaving words black.
Every dream is on water,
And every morning, I wake up sinking.

In my dreams are ships, are sinking,
Are floods of skies and no rain,
Are jungles dry and thick and my finger on the trigger
Of a camera, imagining a frame to fit everything in
Side. And outside, car rides on roads closest to the
milky way. Bells do not chime in America, only horns, only
a billion birds fly but have you ever caught one in your hands?

Do you unravel yourself before falling to bed, but only dream in your sleep?